"Damn his chivalry! . . . Oh, God damn his chivalry!" She knew what was going on in his mind. He had seen her, with Perowne, so he had neither come towards her nor directed the servant to where she sat. For fear of embarrassing her! He would leave it to her to come to him if she wished. The servant, visible in the mirror, had come and gone deviously back, Tietjens still gazing at the elk's head. He had taken the card and restored it to his pocket-book and then had spoken to the servant. The servant had shrugged his shoulders with the formal hospitality of his class and, with his shoulders still shrugged and his one hand pointing towards the inner door, had preceded Tietjens into the hotel. Not one line of Tietjens' face had moved when he had received back his card. It had been then that Sylvia had sworn that she would yet make his wooden face wince. . . . His face was intolerable. Heavy; fixed. Not insolent, but simply gazing over the heads of all things and created beings, into a word too distant for them to enter. . . . And yet it seemed to her, since he was so clumsy and worn out, almost not sporting to persecute him. It was like whipping a dying bulldog. . . . She sank back into her chair with a movement almost of discouragement. She said: "He's gone into the hotel. . . ." Perowne lurched agitatedly forward in his chair. He exclaimed that he was going. Then he sank discouragedly back again: "No, I'm not," he said, "I'm probably much safer here. I might run against him going out." "You've realized that my petticoats protect you," Sylvia said contemptuously. "Of course, Christopher would never hit anyone in my presence." Major Perowne was interrupting her by asking: "What's he going to do? What's he doing in the hotel?" Mrs. Tietjens said: "Guess!" She added: "What would you do in similar circumstances?" "Go and wreck your bedroom," Perowne answered with promptitude. "It's what I did when I found you had left Yssingueux." Sylvia said: "Ah, that was what the place was called." Perowne groaned: "You're callous," he said. "There's no other word for it. Callous. That's what you are." Sylvia asked absently why he called her callous at just that juncture. She was imagining Christopher stumping clumsily along the hotel corridor looking at bedrooms, and then giving the hotel servant a handsome tip to ensure that he should be put on the same floor as herself. She could almost hear his not disagreeable male voice that vibrated a little from the chest and made her vibrate. Perowne was grumbling on. Sylvia was callous because she had forgotten the name of the Brittany hamlet in which they had spent three blissful weeks together, though she had left it so suddenly that all her outfit remained in the hotel.