She did not admit that her offer had been wrongly made. Peter's adventure would not with her have ended perfectly; but neither would it have ended in a fruition merely brutal. She realised how gradually he was losing grip of himself, and saw him soon as tinder for any woman with brains and a high temperature. She saw him slipping his self-respect. She would last night have saved him from the worst. There was friendliness and grace enough between them to justify their passion. But Vivette was now differently inspired. Surely Peter could be braced and stiffened. He was not yet attacked in his will. He was merely blind and drifting, perhaps unaware of his trouble. He found her sitting, an image of graven severity, curiously out of tune with her cheerful room. He felt like a schoolboy called to repeat a lesson in which he had failed to satisfy. "I have offended you," he tragically began. But Vivette intended to be strictly sensible. "That is what I want to talk about," she said, very matter-of-fact. "I don't think you understand what happened last night. I am going to tell you." Peter was puzzled. She was not Vivette of the shallow eyes. He caught her hands to draw her towards him, but she firmly resisted. "No, Peter. Sit still and listen to what I have to say." Peter flung himself, evilly discontented, in a far corner of the settee. "You always wanted me to be serious," said Vivette, looking at him with some amusement. "But it does not seem to please you." Peter could not at once recover from his rejected tenderness, but he felt he was behaving badly again. He contrived to put a little grace into his manner. "I will listen," he said briefly. "Tell me," Vivette began, "what are you supposed to be doing with yourself?" "Doing with myself?" he echoed. Already he was conscious of her drift. "You never talk of your work." "I am reading for the Bar." "What does that mean?" she smiled. Vivette had met these young barristers. "I shall soon be called." "Till then, you will be waiting for work." "You are interested?" Peter inquired with an effort to assume an innocent detachment. "Hasn't it occurred to you," Vivette persisted, "that you're in rather a bad way?" He moved uncomfortably, then rushed to the point: "You mean I'm just loafing about?" "You're not really interested in your work." "You are indeed serious," said Peter, again trying to make light of her catechism. "Aren't you overdoing it?" Vivette sharply rebuked him, and he did not again interrupt. She held to him an unflattering mirror in which he saw an image of himself which frightened him. He was rich. He had nothing particular to do. He drifted about, meeting elegant and attractive people--mostly women. Everywhere he unconsciously opened himself to one appeal. He was idle; and he was obsessed. He struggled against this indictment. He even became angry. What did this talk of Vivette really mean? It meant that he desperately loved her.