Macmaster was aware of her touch; his mind seemed filled with sweetness. But he kept his head obstinately averted. For her sake he did not dare to look away from the maniacal face. A crisis was coming. Mr. Duchemin had arrived at the English translation. He placed his hands on the tablecloth in preparation for rising; he was going to stand on his feet and shout obscenities wildly to the other guests. It was the exact moment. Macmaster made his voice dry and penetrating to say: "'Youth of tepid loves' is a lamentable rendering of _puer calide_! It's lamentably antiquated . . ." Duchemin choked and said: "What? What? What's that?" "It's just like Oxford to use an eighteenth century crib. I suppose that's Whiston and Ditton? Something like that . . ." He observed Duchemin, brought out of his impulse, to be wavering--as if he were coming awake in a strange place! He added: "Anyhow it's wretched schoolboy smut. Fifth form. Or not even that. Have some galantine. I'm going to. Your sole's cold." Mr. Duchemin looked down at his plate. "Yes! Yes!" he muttered. "Yes! With sugar and vinegar sauce!" The prize-fighter slipped away to the sideboard, an admirable quiet fellow; as unobtrusive as a burying beetle. Macmaster said: "You were about to tell me something for my little monograph. What became of Maggie . . . Maggie Simpson. The Scots girl who was Rossetti's model for _Alla Finestra del Cielo_?" Mr. Duchemin looked at Macmaster with sane, muddled, rather exhausted eyes: "_Alla Finestra_!" he exclaimed: "Oh yes! I've got the water-colour. I saw her sitting for it and bought it on the spot. . . ." He looked again at his plate, started at sight of the galantine and began to eat ravenously: "A beautiful girl!" he said: "Very long necked . . . She wasn't of course . . . eh . . . respectable! She's living yet, I think. Very old. I saw her two years ago. She had a lot of pictures. Relics of course! . . . In the Whitechapel Road she lived. She was naturally of that class. . . ." He went muttering on, his head above his plate. Macmaster considered that the fit was over. He was irresistibly impelled to turn to Mrs. Duchemin; her face was rigid, stiff. He said swiftly: "If he'll eat a little: get his stomach filled . . . It calls the blood down from the head. . . ." She said: "Oh, forgive! It's dreadful for you! Myself I will never forgive!" He said: "No! No! . . . Why; it's what I'm _for_!" A deep emotion brought her whole white face to life: "Oh, you _good_ man!" she said in her profound tones, and they remained gazing at each other. Suddenly, from behind Macmaster's back Mr. Duchemin shouted: "I say he made a settlement on her, _dum casta et sola_, of course. Whilst she remained chaste and alone!" Mr. Duchemin, suddenly feeling the absence of the powerful will that had seemed to overweigh his own like a great force in the darkness, was on his feet, panting and delighted: