She was almost asleep. Her weight pressed the edge of the bed.... Ordith would teach her, hold her. She would give herself----“God, why am I so hedged round--forsaking what is lovely, though I see its loveliness--like all the young, because I must. Jesus, pull me out of this even now--so late--even now.” Her lashes moved against her palms. The light came through the pink edges of her fingers.... Was that only hypocrisy? Was she willing, after all? A tremor of excitement ran over her, and she pressed her elbows into the bed and shut her eyes again.... Anyhow, in fifty years it wouldn’t matter.... And Christ would not come again. It was foolish to--to starve for a dream. The room was cold. Her shoulders were bare, and her feet. This physical consciousness was like the touch of a hand. III Throughout the morning Margaret looked forward to her encounter with Ordith with that mixture of passivity and restlessness which alternately lulls and excites the sensitive boy who, something of a hero among his schoolmates, awaits his flogging. After breakfast Ordith and her father disappeared; after lunch they disappeared again. She and her mother, possessed by a common thought which neither would express, faced each other in a silence that was half-nervous, half-determined. Early in the afternoon her mother complained of a headache, and went to her room. “You might have my tea brought up to me, Margaret.” “Poor mother!” Margaret thought. “She’s hoping that I am going to be sensible. Ought I to tell her I am going to be sensible--just to set her mind at rest?” But she did not move. She let the silence of the room close round her. Presently, after many hours it seemed, the door of her father’s room opened and shut, footsteps sounded in the hall, and Ordith entered. “Alone?” he said. It was strange that she felt so calm, so decided, so completely mistress of herself. A twist of annoyance because he asked so unnecessary a question--that was all. “Are you ready for tea?” she asked. “Indeed I am.” “So you lay aside the burdens of state. Is father coming?” “I expect he is.” “I don’t,” she said, under her breath. Then, aloud: “I’ll go and ask him. You might ring.” She looked into her father’s room. He was sitting by his desk, a spiral of blue smoke rising from the ash-tray at his side. “Tea, father?” “Yes, you might send in a cup to me. No milk, no sugar, and strong, _doushka_. I’m dead tired.” He had used the Russian word which had been his pet name for her in the nursery, which she could not remember his having used since she was a child. She went to him and stood by his chair, wishing she could love him. “You are not ill, father?” “No--no.” “I think you ought not to work so much. Surely you have earned a rest?” “I couldn’t retire, darling. You don’t understand.” “I’m beginning to understand--how it holds you. Couldn’t--wouldn’t it be possible, father, for you to throw your mind back to the old days and what seemed worth while then?”