He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly disarmed by her next words. 'David?'--she spoke softly--'how can you be so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will be a unique instance'--she could not keep the laughter out of her voice--'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be done in a fortnight.' 'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he said, 'No. I can't get away now--'tis impossible. Perhaps later--at Easter.' But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, 'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I certainly shall not want _you_.' 'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how gladly I would come if I could.' 'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But never mind, I am quite used to be alone--with Motey.' In spite of her anger and disappointment, she was loth to let him go. Together they walked through the sombre, old-fashioned hall, of which the walls were hung with engravings of men who had been her father's early contemporaries and friends, and to which she had ever been unwilling to make the slightest alteration. Every lozenge of the black and white marble floor recalled her singularly happy, eager childhood, and Mrs. Robinson would have missed the ugliest of the frock-coated philanthropists and statesmen who looked at her so gravely from their tarnished frames. She went with him through into the small glazed vestibule which gave access to the square. Herself she opened the mahogany door, and looked out, shivering, into the foggy darkness which lay beyond. Then came a murmured word or two--a pause--and Winfrith was gone, shutting the door as he went, leaving her alone. As Mrs. Robinson was again crossing the hall she suddenly stayed her steps, pushed her hair off her forehead with a gesture familiar to her when perplexed, and pressed her cold hands against her face, now red with one of her rare, painful blushes. She saw, as in a vision, a strange little scene. In her ears echoed fragments of a conversation, so amazing, so unlikely to have taken place, that she wondered whether the words could have been really uttered. A man, whose tall, thick-set, and rather ungainly figure she knew familiarly well, seemed to be standing close to a tall, slight woman, with whose appearance Penelope felt herself to be at once less and more intimate. She doubted her knowledge of the voice which uttered the curious, ill-sounding words: 'You may kiss me if you like, David.' Not doubtful, alas! her recognition of the quick, hoarse accents in which had come the man's answer: 'No, thank you. I would rather not!'