David made no effort to move, or speak. This was a pleasant room of Elizabeth’s. The brown panels were warm in the firelight. They made a soft darkness that had nothing gloomy about it, and the room was full of flowers. The great brown crock full of daffodils stood on the window-ledge, and on the table which filled the angle between the window and the fireplace was another, in which stood a number of the tall yellow tulips which smell like Maréchal-Niel roses. Elizabeth’s dress was brown, too. It was made of some soft stuff that made no sound when she moved. The room was very still, and very sweet, and the sweetness and the stillness were very grateful to David Blake. The thought came to him suddenly, that it was many years since he had sat like this in Elizabeth’s room, and the silence had companioned them. Years ago he had been there often enough, and they had talked, read, argued, or been still, just as the spirit of the moment dictated. They had been good comrades, then, in the old days—the happy days of youth. He looked across at Elizabeth and said suddenly: “You are a very restful woman, Elizabeth.” She smiled at him without moving, and answered: “I am glad if I rest you, David—I think you need rest.” “You sit so still. No one else sits so still.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “That sounds as if I were a very inert sort of person,” she said. David frowned a little. “No, it’s not that. It is strength—force—stability. Only strong things keep still like that.” This was so like the old David, that it took Elizabeth back ten years at a leap. She was silent for a moment, gathering her courage. Then she said: “David, you do need rest, and a change. Why don’t you go away?” She had thought he would be angry, but he was not angry. Instead, he answered her as the David of ten years ago might have done, with a misquotation. “What is the good of a change? It’s a case of—I myself am my own Heaven and Hell”; and his voice was the voice of a very weary man. Elizabeth’s eyes dwelt on him with a deep considering look. “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “One has to find oneself. But it is easier to find oneself in clear country than in a fog. This place is not good for you, David. When I said you wanted a change, I didn’t mean just for a time—I meant altogether. Why don’t you go right away—leave it all behind you, and start again?” He looked at her as if he might be angry, if he were not too tired. “Because I won’t run away,” he said, with his voice back on the harsh note which had become habitual. There was a pause. Elizabeth heard her own heart beat. The room was getting darker. A log fell in the fire. Then David laughed bitterly.