“If Venice,” she said reasonably, “had had a child, I would have called to Napier in vain. We can’t know the beginning and end of honour, nor what it is, nor what it will do, nor what will debauch it, nor what will make it unbending as iron. Let us say I have debauched Napier’s honour. Oh, let us say anything! We don’t stand on words on ultimate nights like these. Honour is like a little child, let us say, and like a little child it may be led away by a shining toy, and in this case I am the shining toy. But had Venice had a child I might have shone like Aldebaran and called Napier in vain. And that would have been right and just. We must all give way before children, always, always. Oh, if people had always done that, what miseries wouldn’t the world have been spared! Those whose dreams are clean must give way to children, for babies will carry clean dreams further than the wisest of old men, and slowly the world will rise above the age of smoke and savagery....” “But it’s absurd, Iris! What chance has the girl had of having a child yet!” “But I am not pretending to play fair! Or did you think I was? I awoke from my illness, and I awoke suddenly to life. Awaking, I took my chance as it came. And quickly, quickly, for fear of giving Venice a longer chance. And it’s because I haven’t played fair that I am going to Sir Maurice’s house now.” “Oh!” I said. “Good God! Let me out of this car, Iris! I will walk back to London.” “Napier doesn’t know. Napier would be frantic if he knew. Napier is dining with Venice to-night. They would both be frantic if they knew I had taken Sir Maurice’s challenge and gone down to Sutton Marle. But I must go, to make unfairness a little less unfair. I must let Sir Maurice have his last joy of me. Besides, there is a fascination in letting men tell the truth to one. There is a fascination in wondering if it will ever be the truth. But look! Oh, look! There is Harrod’s!” The car had pulled up on the brow of a small hill. The lights searched across the road into an unhedged field. Iris pointed along the flame of light. “There is Harrod’s,” she said gravely. “But where is Harrod’s? I see a field and what looks like a giant oak.” “That is Harrod’s. Not an oak, but an ash. It is very old, and smells of fairies and moonlight.” There were once two roads that led away from a certain tree. The tree, a solitary giant of enormous girth, stood perhaps twenty yards from the road. Its trunk dammed the far-flung eyes of the car, and in the light its leaves were made of silver, and you fancied that, had there been a breath of wind, it had spoken from its ancient wisdom, of which this night stood so sorely in need; but never a whisper stirred the countryside. “Iris, doesn’t that make your passions look ... silly?” She took my hand, and lifted it, and dropped it. I do not know why she did that. Her face was hidden. It seemed to me that a long time passed before she spoke, and I seemed to think of many things.