Fort turned away to get the cigarette. With what bitter restraint and curious little smile she had said that! But no sooner was he out of the room and hunting blindly for the cigarettes, than his mind was filled with an aching concern for Noel, fleeing like that, reckless and hurt, with nowhere to go. He found the polished birch-wood box which held the cigarettes, and made a desperate effort to dismiss the image of the girl before he again reached Leila. She was still sitting there, with her arms crossed, in the stillness of one whose every nerve and fibre was stretched taut. “Have one yourself,” she said. “The pipe of peace.” Fort lit the cigarettes, and sat down on the edge of the bed; and his mind at once went back to Noel. “Yes,” she said suddenly; “I wonder where she's gone. Can you see her? She might do something reckless a second time. Poor Jimmy! It would be a pity. And so that monk's been here, and drunk champagne. Good idea! Get me some, Jimmy!” Again Fort went, and with him the image of the girl. When he came back the second time; she had put on that dark silk garment in which she had appeared suddenly radiant the fatal night after the Queen's Hall concert. She took the wineglass, and passed him, going into the sitting-room. “Come and sit down,” she said. “Is your leg hurting you?” “Not more than usual,” and he sat down beside her. “Won't you have some? 'In vino veritas;' my friend.” He shook his head, and said humbly: “I admire you, Leila.” “That's lucky. I don't know anyone else who, would.” And she drank her champagne at a draught. “Don't you wish,” she said suddenly, “that I had been one of those wonderful New Women, all brain and good works. How I should have talked the Universe up and down, and the war, and Causes, drinking tea, and never boring you to try and love me. What a pity!” But to Fort there had come Noel's words: “It's awfully funny, isn't it?” “Leila,” he said suddenly, “something's got to be done. So long as you don't wish me to, I'll promise never to see that child again.” “My dear boy, she's not a child. She's ripe for love; and—I'm too ripe for love. That's what's the matter, and I've got to lump it.” She wrenched her hand out of his and, dropping the empty glass, covered her face. The awful sensation which visits the true Englishman when a scene stares him in the face spun in Fort's brain. Should he seize her hands, drag them down, and kiss her? Should he get up and leave her alone? Speak, or keep silent; try to console; try to pretend? And he did absolutely nothing. So far as a man can understand that moment in a woman's life when she accepts the defeat of Youth and Beauty, he understood perhaps; but it was only a glimmering. He understood much better how she was recognising once for all that she loved where she was not loved.