Tietjens had moved slightly as she had thrown: the cutlets and most of the salad leaves had gone over his shoulder. But one, couched, very green leaf was on his shoulder-strap, and the oil and vinegar from the plate--Sylvia _knew_ that she took too much of all condiments--had splashed from the revers of his tunic to his green staff-badges. She was glad that she had hit him as much as that: it meant that her marksmanship had not been quite rotten. She was glad, too, that she had missed him. She was also supremely indifferent. It had occurred to her to do it and she had done it. Of that she was glad! She looked at herself for some time in the mirror of bluish depths. She pressed her immense bandeaux with both hands on to her ears. She was all right: high-featured: alabaster complexion--but that was mostly the mirror's doing--beautiful, long, cool hands--what man's forehead wouldn't long for them? . . . And that hair! What man wouldn't think of it, unloosed on white shoulders! . . . Well, Tietjens wouldn't! Or, perhaps, he did . . . she hoped he did, curse him, for he never saw that sight. Obviously sometimes, at night, with a little whisky taken he must want to! She rang the bell and bade Hullo Central sweep the plateful from the carpet; Hullo Central, tall and dark, looking with wide-open eyes, motionlessly at nothing. Sylvia went along the bookshelves, pausing over a book back, "_Vitae Hominum Notiss_ . . ." in gilt, irregular capitals pressed deep into the old leather. At the first long window she supported herself by the blind-cord. She looked out and back into the room. "There's that veiled woman!" she said, "going into eleven. . . . It's two o'clock, of course. . . ." She looked at her husband's back hard, the clumsy khaki back that was getting round-shouldered now. Hard! She wasn't going to miss a motion or a stiffening. "I've found out who it is!" she said, "and who she goes to. I got it out of the porter." She waited. Then she added: "It's the woman you travelled down from Bishop's Auckland with. On the day war was declared." Tietjens turned solidly round in his chair. She knew he would do that out of stiff politeness, so it meant nothing. His face was whitish in the pale light, but it was always whitish since he had come back from France and passed his day in a tin hut among dust heaps. He said: "So you saw me!" But that, too, was mere politeness. She said: "Of course the whole crowd of us from Claudine's saw you! It was old Campion who said she was a Mrs. . . . I've forgotten the name." Tietjens said: "I imagined he would know her. I saw him looking in from the corridor!" She said: "Is she your mistress, or only Macmaster's, or the mistress of both of you? It would be like you to have a mistress in common. . . . She's got a mad husband, hasn't she? A clergyman." Tietjens said: "She hasn't!" Sylvia checked suddenly in her next questions, and Tietjens, who in these discussions never manœuvred for position, said: