He sat down squarely in front of her, hardly breathed from his paroxysm, getting launched without transition. He hoped, by rapid plunging from one state to another, to take the wind out of the laugh’s sails. It should be left towering, spectral, but becalmed, behind. “I don’t know from which side to approach you, Bertha. You frequently complain of my being thoughtless and spoilt. But your uncorked solemnity is far more frivolous than anything I can manage.—Excuse me, of course, for speaking in this way!—Won’t you come down from your pedestal just for a few minutes?” And he “sketched,” in French idiom, a gesture, as though offering her his hand. “My dear Sorbert, I feel far from being on any pedestal! There’s too little of the pedestal, if anything, about me. Really, Sorbet,” (she leant towards him with an abortive movement as though to take his hand) “I _am_ your friend; _believe me_!” (Last words very quick, with nod of head and blink of eyes.) “You worry yourself far too much. Don’t do so. You are in no way bound to me. If you think we should part—_let us part_!” The “let us part!” was precipitate, strenuous Prussian, almost truculent. Tarr thought: “Is it cunning, stupidity, disease or what?” She continued of a sudden, shunting on to another track of generosity: “But I agree. Let us be franker. We waste too much time talking, talking. You are different to-day, Sorbet. What is it? If you have met somebody else⸺” “If I had I’d tell you. There is besides _nobody else_ to meet. You are unique!” “Some one’s been saying something to you⸺” “No. I’ve been saying something to somebody else. But it’s the same thing.” With half-incredulous, musing, glimmering stare she drew in her horns. Tarr meditated. “I should have known that. I am asking her for something that she sees no reason to give up. Next her _goût_ for me, it is the most valuable thing she possesses. It is indissolubly mixed up with the _goût_. The poor heightened self she laces herself into is the only consolation for _me_ and all the troubles I spring on her. And I ask her brutally to ‘come down from her pedestal.’ I owe even a good deal to that pedestal, I expect, as regards her _goût_. This blessed protection Nature has given her, I, a minute or two before leaving her, make a last inept attempt to capture or destroy. Her good sense is contemptuous and indignant. It is only in defence of this ridiculous sentimentality that she has ever shown her teeth. This illusion has enabled her to bear things so long. It now stands ready with Indian impassibility to manœuvre her over the falls or rapids of Parting. The scientific thing to do, I suppose, my intention being generous, would be to flatter and increase in some way this idea of herself. I should give her some final and extraordinary opportunity of being ‘noble.’” He looked at her a moment, in search of inspiration.