At once the whole scene became curiously remote, as remote as Minna and Basil Haslam in the drawing-room, as remote as her mother nodding foolishly to the buzz of their whispered conversation, as remote as Deedy Fender and all her old life in Edinburgh and Westmoreland. Real only to her then were the happy days of her childhood in Cornwall, and joyous moments here and there--a wild scamper on Arthur's Seat; a long swim in the Firth of Forth, an affectionate talk with a girl at school, a word of praise from a mistress whom she had adored. Then, like tripping over a stone, she came back to Annie. Annie who was in sore trouble. Annie who wanted only a word from Frederic. . . . She heard Serge's step in the hall, on the stairs, then his big voice saluting Basil Haslam, and then the two of them go upstairs to the studio-bedroom at the top of the house. She heard Gertrude and Bennett come out of the study and go upstairs. They stopped on the landing, and she heard them kiss. Ada, the servant, was out, and she looked round the kitchen and thought how cosy it was, how much nicer, really, than any other room in the house, except, perhaps, the study. Upstairs Serge laughed. No one else in the house laughed--not like Serge. He was always so happy. No one else was happy like that. Not her father, nor her mother, nor Gertrude, even though Bennett Lawrie loved her so. . . . Bennett Lawrie was a vivid figure to Annette. He was so intense, but he never laughed. She felt that she would like to make him laugh. She began to invent foolish jokes and antics that perhaps might make him laugh, and was so busied with them that without her hearing him Frederic came into the kitchen and stood above her. "Get me some supper," he said, "I'm devilish hungry." "Oh! You!" Annette lit the gas and stood staring at him with her hand above her head, leaning on the gas-bracket. He looked very white and mean and shrivelled, and the skin under his eyes was puffy. "What are you staring at?" he said. "I'm hungry." Annette put food in front of him, and he ate wolfishly. "I'm devilish hungry," he said. "I've been walking miles. I'm tired and hungry. I've walked miles." "Did you go to see her?" It was out before she was aware. Frederic dropped his knife into his plate with a clatter. "What the devil do you mean? Who?" "Annie." Frederic gripped her wrist and jumped to his feet and thrust his face close to hers. "For God's sake!" he said under his breath. "For God's sake! What do you mean? Don't you blab. Don't you blab!" "You're hurting me." "What do you mean?" "I read her letter. It was in your coat. I was mending it. I didn't mean to. Why don't you write to her." "What letter? I don't know any letter." "You do. She wants you to write to her." "I have written." "Go on with your supper, then." "You won't tell any one. Promise you won't tell any one." "No. All right. I won't tell any one." "You're a queer one, Annette. You don't seem to mind." "Mind!"