There remained the task of having tea with Francis Sales and breaking the bonds of which he had tired. She made it easy for him. That was necessary for her dignity, but beyond the desire for as much seemliness as could be saved from the general ugliness of their mistake, she had no feeling; yet she thought it would be good to be in the open air, on horseback, free. If there had been anything still owing, she had paid her debt with generosity. She gave him the chance he wanted but did not know how to take, and she had to allow him to appear aggrieved. She was cruel: she was tired of him; she was, he sneered, too good for him. The words went on for some time, and if some of them were new, their manner was wearisomely familiar. She was amazed at her own endurance, now and in the past, and at last she said, “No, no, Francis. Say no more. This is too much fuss. Perhaps we have both changed.” “It was you who began it.” “Was it? How can one tell?” “You began it,” he persisted. “There was a time when you went white, like paper, when we met, and your eyes went black. Now I might be a sheep in a field.” She was standing up, ready to go. “One gets used to things,” she said. “I have never been used to you,” he muttered, and she knew that, telling this truth, he also explained a good deal. “I never should be. You’re like nobody else—nobody.” “But it is too much strain,” she murmured slowly. “Yes—well, it is you who have said it. I had made up my mind—I’m not ungrateful—I never intended to say a word.” She smiled. This was the first remark which had really touched her. She found it so offensive that a smile was the only weapon with which to meet it. “I know that.” “But mind,” he almost shouted, “there’s nobody like you.” “Yes, yes, I know that too.” She turned to him with a silencing sternness. “I tell you I know everything.” § 2