Something made her shudder. She felt cold. Perhaps the wind had changed outside, as it often did in May. She stooped, picked up her skirt, and mechanically hooked it round her. Still feeling chilled, she crossed her arms and hugged herself. A minute or two later she had put on her blouse and her jacket. She meant to take them off again as soon as she stopped shivering. Already Hubert would be cursing her delay. She thought of the light in his eyes when she told him that, after all, she had come to pose. The memory of it made her heart jump again, with a great, single throb. It was the cave man’s light. She never saw it in Bob’s, and never would. Bob’s eyes were twinkling and kind. She didn’t suppose she would ever see such kind eyes in anyone else. If kindness were what she wanted.... Beginning to feel warmer, she noticed how grotesque her hair was with her spring sport suit. She had stuck through it a great skewer, with a handle of artificial jade, which she had used with some other costume. But the high crown of hair was so little in keeping with the rest of her that she pulled out the skewer and the other pins, again letting the glinting cataract tumble down. Why had Bob never asked her if she loved him? Hubert had done it a hundred, perhaps a thousand times. Bob had seemed to think that his loving her covered all possible conditions. What he had to give her was always the theme of his enthusiasm, as if she were a beggar who could give nothing in return. With Hubert, it was what he was to get from her. She was the richly dowered one who could offer or withhold. He would take all—and give nothing. Well, let him! It was what she wanted—to be drained dry. If she was to give herself up, she would give herself up. When Hubert had done with her, he would chuck her on the scrap heap like her father. That was the way she loved him. That was the way to be loved. Cave men didn’t watch lest you should get damp feet, or have their lives insured for you. Their love was passion, a fire that burned you up and left you a white bit of ash. And yet to be burned up and left a white bit of ash was something for which she was not yet prepared. She didn’t say this to herself. All of a sudden she was terrified. Whatever instinct governed her went into the nimbleness of her fingers as she began flattening her hair so as to put on her hat. She didn’t know why she was doing this. She didn’t even know that she wanted to get away. It was just a wild impulse to be back as the everyday Jennie Follett. The girl in the Byzantine chair was out of the question—for to-day. To-morrow, perhaps!—probably—quite surely! But for to-day she must still belong for a few more hours to herself. Hubert might come thumping any minute on the door, and if he found her dressed for the street.... And just then he did come thumping on the door. "Jennie, for God’s sake, what’s the matter? Are you dead?"