He got up, obsequiously reproducing in his own movements and expression her new normality. “Well, how about lunch? I’ll come and help you with it.” “There’s nothing to do. I’ll get it.” Bertha had wiped her eyes with the attentiveness a man bestows on his chin after a shave, in little brusque hard strokes. She did not look at Tarr. She arranged her hair in the mirror, then went to the kitchen. For her to be so _perfectly natural_ offended him. The intensity of her past feeling carried her on for about five minutes into ordinary life. Her seriousness was tactful for so long. Then her nature began to give way. It broke up again into fits and starts of self-consciousness. The mind was called in, did its work clumsily as usual. She became her usual self. Sitting on the stool by the window, in the act of eating, Tarr there in front of her, it was more than ever impossible to be natural. She resented the immediate introduction of lunch in this way. The resentment increased her artificiality. To counterbalance the acceptance of food, she had to throw more pathos into her face. With haggard resignation she was going on again; doing what was asked of her, partaking of this lunch. She did so with unnecessary conscientiousness. Her strange wave of dignity had let her in for this? Almost she must make up for that dignity! Life was confusing her again; it was useless to struggle. “Aren’t these strawberries good? These little hard ones are better than the bigger strawberries. Have some more cream?” “Thank you.” She should have said no. But being greedy in this matter she accepted it, with heavy air of some subtle advantage gained. “How did the riding lesson go off?” She went to a riding school in the mornings. “Oh, quite well, thank you. How did _your_ lesson go off?” This referred to his exchange of languages with a Russian girl. “Admirably, thank you.” The Russian girl was a useful feint for her. “What is the time?” The time? What cheek! He was almost startled. He took his heavy watch out and presented its face to her ironically. “Are you in a hurry?” he asked. “No, I just wondered what the time was. I live so vaguely.” “You are sure you are not in a hurry?” “Oh, no!” “I have a confession to make, my dear Bertha.” He had not put his watch back in his pocket. She had asked for the watch; he would use it. “I came here just now to test a funny mood—a quite _new_ mood. My visit is a sort of trial trip of this mood. It was connected with you. I wanted to find out what it meant, and how it would be affected by your presence.” Bertha looked up with mocking sulky face, a shade of hopeful curiosity. “_It was a feeling of complete indifference as regards yourself!_” He said this solemnly, with the pomp with which a weighty piece of news might be delivered by a solicitor in conversation with his client. “Oh, is _that_ all?” The new barbaric effort was met by Bertha scornfully. “No, that is not all.”