These two ideas, collusion and cohabitation, struggled for supremacy in Ranny's brain. They seemed to him mutually exclusive; and all it came to was that, with his suit so imminent, he couldn't be too careful. He must not, even for the sake of decency, show Violet any consideration that would be prejudicial to his case. Whereupon it struck him that the most perilous, most embarrassing detail of the situation was the disgusting accident of the weather. In common decency he couldn't have turned her out of doors in that rain. And under all the confused working of his intelligence his instinct told him that what happened was not an accident at all. His inmost prescience hinted at foredoomed, irremediable suffering; profound, irreparable disaster. * * * * * But with his mind set upon its purpose he gathered up the shabby skirt, the stockings, and the shoes, he took his own thick overcoat from its peg in the passage; he warmed them well before the sitting-room fire. Violet watched him with an air of detachment, of innocent incomprehension, as if these preparations in no way concerned herself. She was sitting in the chair now, with her bare feet in the fender. He then put the kettle on the fire, and her eyes kindled and looked up at him. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "I'm going to make you a cup of hot tea before you go." "I _can't_ go," she whispered. He was firm. "I'm awfully sorry, Violet. But you've got to." "But, Ranny--you couldn't turn a cat out on a night like this." "Don't talk nonsense about turning out. You know you can't stay here. I can't think what on earth possessed you to come. You haven't told me yet." She did not tell him now. She did not look at him. She sat bowed forward, her elbows on her knees, and her chin propped on her hands, while she cried, quietly, with slow tears that rolled down her bare, undefended face. He made the tea and poured it out for her, and she took the cup from him and drank, without looking at him, without speaking. And still she cried quietly. Now and then a soft sob came from her in the pauses of her drinking. Ransome sat on the table and delivered himself of what he had to say. "I don't know what's upsetting you," he said. "And you don't seem inclined to tell me. But if you're worrying about that divorce, you needn't. You'll get it all right. The--the thing'll be sent you in a week or a fortnight." "Ranny," she said, "are you really doin' it?" "Of course I'm doing it." "I didn't know." "Well--you might have known." He was deaf to the terror in her voice. "I'd have done it years ago if I'd had the money. It isn't my fault we've had to wait for it. It was hard luck on both of us." He stopped to look at her, still, like some sick animal, meekly drinking, and still crying. He waited till her cup was empty and took it from her. "More?" "No, thank you."