Philippa made a hesitating movement towards her. “Oh, it was _noble_ of you,” she whispered. The familiar word jarred upon Cecily. She frowned impatiently. “Shall we leave nobility out of our conversation?” she asked. “I’m rather tired of it. Will you sit down?” Philippa complied, and after a moment Cecily too sat down at some little distance. For an interval there was silence. “I suppose you will admit that I managed to save you just now from a scandal,” she said at last. “Yes, indeed,” murmured the other woman. “Then will you look upon this as a business transaction, and pay me by speaking the truth?” “Yes,” said Philippa again, her mournful eyes fixed upon Cecily’s. “Did you see my husband the other night?” “No--he wasn’t here.” “But you came to see him?” “Yes.” Cecily drew in her breath a little. “At his request, of course?” she asked lightly, with a smile. “No--he didn’t know I was coming.” Again they looked at one another in silence. “Please listen,” said Cecily after a time, slowly. “Though I did not leave my husband on your account, I shouldn’t have returned to his house if I had known that his--his friendship with you was not over.” “It _is_ over.” “Then will you be kind enough to explain to me why you were here last week?” Philippa’s eyes wavered. She began to trace patterns on the floor with her foot. “I--I came to borrow money,” she answered under her breath. Cecily leaned back in her chair. With Philippa’s words came a swift realization of the sordidness of a “love affair.” She was startled a moment later by a sudden torrent of words from the woman opposite to her. “You’ll have to know all about it, I suppose!” she broke out in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “I’m desperate--hunted. Do you know what that feels like? Of course you don’t. There’s a man who threatens--oh, I can’t tell you!--I can’t tell you!” She broke into sudden hysterical crying. “Hush!” said Cecily, more gently. “Tell me. You must tell me everything now. It is only fair to yourself, and to me. You wanted money, you say? But why didn’t you write, instead of----” “I _did_ write,” she explained, between her sobs, “ever so many times. He always returned my letters unopened. He--he had discovered that I was going to marry Nigel. And then--I used to come down here and wait for him to come out. But I never saw him. One evening, when I was waiting, I saw both the servants leave the flat, and I thought he would be alone. I didn’t know he wasn’t in town. I had the latch-key. He gave it to me once, when I--when I used to work here. I knew he wrote late. I thought if I could once get to his study and see him, I might----” She paused. Cecily was still silent. “It was very mad,” she went on, “but it seemed an opportunity. The hall door downstairs was open. I suppose there was a party going on in one of the flats, and I trusted to luck.... But he wasn’t here. I didn’t know he’d gone away....” Again her voice failed.