“And soul!” The implication stung. “You mean----” “Never mind what I mean. I’m not quite sure myself. I don’t care.” He could not wait to think it out. Perhaps she had meant nothing. He said: “You know what I am asking.” “I don’t love you,” she said, before he could speak, “nor you me.” She faced him suddenly. “There’s one question I want to ask you, Nick,” she said evenly. “Whatever your answer may be it will not affect my answer. So the truth.... If I consented to be your mistress, would that be enough? Would it?” “Good God, Margaret! what a question! No, a thousand times, no!” “Put aside the business aspect of this marriage. Think of the personal only. What is it you want in me?” “All of you.” “Body and soul?” “Yes.” She bowed her head. “I wonder if you believe that. I think you do.” Then, in a flash, “Oh, Nick, we do lie to ourselves! I was wrong in a way. It’s possession you want, isn’t it?--abstract possession--ownership--gain!” “Is that wrong?” “You’re a man,” she said simply, and, with caught breath, “Thank God for that!” He was careful, in the light of his experience, not to approach her, not to touch her. This time she should come to him. “Come, Margaret,” he said; “don’t let us be fools.” She looked across at him. So she was to move towards his chair, and sit at his feet--and sit at his feet. He would touch her hair, her hands, her shoulders. That would be yielding. That would be, very quietly, the end.... That would be extraordinarily like an oleograph--“in the firelight.” She thrilled to laughter, and slowly, like recognition of an unfamiliar acquaintance, laughter came. It was as if she had wakened from some ridiculous nightmare; as if a shaft of light had fallen across a dim room, revealing countless absurdities that the dark had concealed. And laughter fled suddenly--stifled her a moment, and was gone.