"Of course, Port Scatho, I won't withdraw my wretched little account from you if you want to keep it. It flatters me that you should." He stopped and added: "I only wanted to avoid these . . . these family complications. But I suppose you can stop my brother's money being paid into my account. I don't want his money." He said to Sylvia: "You had better settle the other matter with Port Scatho." To Port Scatho: "I'm intensely obliged to you, Port Scatho. . . . You'll get Lady Port Scatho round to Macmaster's this evening if only for a minute; before eleven. . . ." And to his brother: "Come along, Mark. I'm going down to the War Office. We can talk as we walk." Sylvia said very nearly with timidity--and again a dark thought went over Tietjens' mind: "Do we meet again then? . . . I know you're very busy. . . ." Tietjens said: "Yes. I'll come and pick you out from Lady Job's, if they don't keep me too long at the War Office. I'm dining, as you know, at Macmaster's; I don't suppose I shall stop late." "I'd come," Sylvia said, "to Macmaster's, if you thought it was appropriate. I'd bring Claudine Sandbach and General Wade. We're only going to the Russian dancers. We'd cut off early." Tietjens could settle that sort of thought very quickly. "Yes, do," he said hurriedly. "It would be appreciated." He got to the door: he came back: his brother was nearly through. He said to Sylvia, and for him the occasion was a very joyful one: "I've worried out some of the words of that song. It runs: 'Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen: the voice not heard . . .' Probably it's 'the voice not ever heard' to make up the metre. . . . I don't know the writer's name. But I hope I'll worry it all out during the day." Sylvia had gone absolutely white. "Don't!" she said. "Oh . . . _don't_." She added coldly: "Don't take the trouble," and wiped her tiny handkerchief across her lips as Tietjens went away. She had heard the song at a charity concert and had cried as she heard it. She had read, afterwards, the words in the programme and had almost cried again. But she had lost the programme and had never come across the words again. The echo of them remained with her like something terrible and alluring: like a knife she would some day take out and with which she would stab herself. III