“Yes. I had called to see you, and was waiting a little while on the chance of your coming in when I happened to look out of the window. A girl was coming down the street, looking at the numbers of the houses. She stopped here. Intuition told me she was Miss Goodwin. While she was ringing the bell I did all I could to increase the shabby squalor of your room. She was shown in here, and I introduced myself as your friend. We chatted. I drew an agonising picture of your struggle for existence. You were brave, talented, and unsuccessful. Though you went often hungry, you had a plucky smile upon your lips. It was a meritorious bit of work. Miss Goodwin cried a good deal. She is charming. I was so sorry for her that I laid it on all the thicker.” “Where is she now?” “Nearing Guernsey. She’s gone.” “Gone!” I said. “Without seeing me! I don’t understand.” “You don’t understand how she loves you, James.” “But she’s gone. Gone without a word.” “She has gone because she loved you so. She had intended to stay with the Gunton-Cresswells. She knows them, it seems. They didn’t know she was coming. She didn’t know herself until this morning. She happened to be walking on the quay at St. Peter’s Port. The outward-bound boat was on the point of starting for England. A wave of affection swept over Miss Goodwin. She felt she must see you. Scribbling a note, which she despatched to her mother, she went aboard. She came straight here. Then, when I had finished with her, when I had lied consistently about you for an hour, she told me she must return. ‘I must not see James,’ she said. ‘You have torn my heart. I should break down.’ And she said, speaking, I think, half to herself, ‘Your courage is so noble, so different from mine. And I must not impose a needless strain upon it. You shall not see me weep for you.’ And then she went away.” Julian’s voice broke. He was genuinely affected by his own recital. For my part, I saw that I had bludgeon work to do. It is childish to grumble at the part Fate forces one to play. Sympathetic or otherwise, one can only enact one’s _rôle_ to the utmost of one’s ability. Mine was now essentially unsympathetic, but I was determined that it should be adequately played. I went to the fireplace and poked the fire into a blaze. Then, throwing my hat on the table and lighting a cigarette, I regarded Julian cynically. “You’re a nice sort of person, aren’t you?” I said. “What do you mean?” asked Julian, startled, as I had meant that he should be, by the question. I laughed. “Aren’t you just a little transparent, my dear Julian?” He stared blankly. I took up a position in front of the fire. “Disloyalty,” I said tolerantly, “where a woman is concerned, is in the eyes of some people almost a negative virtue.” “I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.” “Don’t you?”