As long as she lived she would remember Waddington: the stretched-out arms, the top-heavy body bowed to the caress; the inflamed and startled face staring at her, like some strange fish, over Mrs. Levitt's shoulder, the mouth dropping open as if it called out to her "Go back!" What depths of fatuity he must have sunk to before he could have come to that! And the sad figure leaning on the chimneypiece, whipped, beaten by Mrs. Levitt's laughter--the high, coarse, malignant laughter that had made her run to the smoke-room door to shield him, to shut it off. What wouldn't Ralph have given to have seen him! It was all very well for Ralph to talk about making a "study" of him; he hadn't got further than the merest outside fringe of his great subject. He didn't know the bare rudiments of Waddington. He had had brilliant flashes of his own, but no sure sight of the reality. And it had been given to her, Barbara, to see it, all at once. She had penetrated at one bound into the thick of him. They had wondered how far he would go; and he had gone so far, so incredibly far above and beyond himself that all their estimates were falsified. And she saw that her seeing was the end--the end of their game, hers and Ralph's, the end of their compact, the end of the tie that bound them. She found herself shut in with Waddington; the secret that she shared with him shut Ralph out. It was intolerable that all this rich, exciting material should be left on her hands, lodged with her useless, when she thought of what she and Ralph could have made of it together. If only she could have given it him. But of course she couldn't. She had always known there would be things she couldn't give him. She would go on seeing more and more of them. Odd that she didn't feel any moral indignation. It had been too funny, like catching a child in some amusing naughtiness; and, as poor Waddy's eyes and open mouth had intimated, she had had no business to catch him, to know anything about it, no business to be there. "Ralph," she said, "you must let me off the compact." He turned, laughing. "Why, have you seen something?" "It doesn't matter whether I have or haven't." "It was a sacred compact." "But if I can only keep it by being a perfect pig--" He looked down at her face, her troubled, unnaturally earnest face. "Of course, if you feel like that about it--" "You'd feel like that if you were his confidential secretary and had all his correspondence." "Yes, yes. I see, Barbara, it won't work. I'll let you off the compact. We can go on with him just the same." "We can't." "What? Not make a study of him?" "No. We don't know what we're doing. It isn't safe. We may come on things any day." "Like the thing you came on just now." "I didn't say I'd come on anything." "All right, you didn't. He shall be our unfinished book, Barbara." "He'll be _your_ unfinished book. I've finished mine all right. Anything else will be simply appendix." "You think you've got him complete?"