Just the faintest shadow flickered across her face. But she replied with a little wriggle and a little laugh indicative of a shuddering at her escape. "It would have been too awful," she said. "You, with your moods! You're getting worse, Phil, you are really!" He had seen the shadow. Had it stayed, he had crossed to her, caught her hands again, cried: "O Brida, Brida!" and in that shadow's tenderness have found the balm which in these days he craved for, craved for, craved for. He saw it pass and took instead the mock of her light tone and words. "Worse--yes, I know I'm worse," he said violently. "You don't know how bad--nor any one." "Tell me, old boy." "There's nothing to tell." "You're working too hard, Phil." "I'm sick of hearing that. That's all rubbish." "Poor old boy!" She saw his face work again; but "It's our press night," was all he said. "We go to press to-night. I've the House of Commons' debate to read and an article to write--two articles. I must go, Brida." She told him: "Well, you won't get the debate yet. It's much too early. Do sit down, Phil. Here, by my side, and talk, Phil, do!" He shook his head and took up his hat; and she could see how his hand that held it trembled. He was at the door with no more than "Good-bye" when she sprang to her feet and called him back: "At least shake hands, rude beast!" and when he gave his hand, she held it. "What's up, old boy?" He drew his hand away. "Nothing, Brida." "Just now--when you first came--what did you mean by saying: 'All right then--it's no good then.' What did you mean by that, Phil?" His face, while she waited his reply, was working as though it mirrored clumsy working of his brain. His words, when he found speech, were blurred and spasmodic, as though his brain that threw them up were a machine gone askew and leaking under intense internal stress, where it should have delivered in an amiable flow. "Why, I meant that it's no good," he said, "no good looking for what I can't find. I don't know what it is, even. Brida, I don't even know what it is that I want. Peace--rest--happiness--getting back to what I used to be. I don't know. I can't explain. I can't even explain to myself--" "Why, old boy?" "I can do it at night. Sometimes I can get near it at night. Sometimes I lie awake at night and call myself all the vile, vile names I can think of. Go through the alphabet and find a name for what I am with every letter. But at the back of it--at the back of it there's still--still a reservation, still an excuse for myself. I want to tell some one. I want to find some one to tell it all to--to say 'I'm This and That and This and That, and Oh! for God Almighty's sake help me--help me--'"