"My charm!" repeated Bingham, in a tone of sarcasm. "I'm sorry I used the word charm," said May. "I will use a better term, your personality. You are so alarming and yet so gentle." Bingham turned and gazed at her silently. They were now very near the Lodgings. "Thanks," he said at last. "I know where I am. But I knew it before." A great silence came upon them. Sounds passed them as they walked; men hurried past them, occasionally a woman, a Red Cross nurse in uniform. The sky above was still growing more and more luminous. All the rest of the way they walked in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, neither wishing to speak. When they reached the Lodgings Bingham walked into the court with her. "Won't you come in?" she asked, but it was a mere formality, for she knew that he would refuse. "It's too late," he said. "And you are coming to dinner to-morrow at eight?" She laid emphasis on the hour, to hide the fact that she was really asking whether he meant to come at all, after their talk about his personality. "Yes, at eight," he said. "Good-bye." As he spoke the moon showed full and gloriously, coming out for a moment sharply from the fine gauzy veil of grey that overspread the sky, and the Court was distinct to its very corners. The gravel, the shallow stone steps at the door, the narrow windows on each side of the door, the sombre walls; all were illumined. And Bingham's face, as he lifted his cap, was illumined too. It was a very dark face, so dark that May doubted if she really had quite grasped the details of it in her own mind. His eyes seemed scarcely to notice her as she smiled, and yet he too smiled. Then he went back over the gravel to the gate without saying another word. She did not look at his retreating figure. She opened the door and went in. Other people in the world were suffering. Why can't one always realise that? It would make one's own suffering easier to bear. The house seemed empty. There was not a sound in it. The dim portraits on the walls looked out from their frames at her. But they had nothing to do with her, she was an outsider! She walked up the broad staircase. She must endure torture for two--nearly three more days! The hours must be dealt with one by one, even the minutes. It would take all her strength. At the head of the stairs she paused. Her desire was to go straight to her room, and not to go into the drawing-room and greet her Aunt Lena. Gwendolen would very likely be there in high spirits--the future mistress of the house--the one person in the world to whom the Warden would have to say, "May I? Can I?" "Don't be a coward! Other people in the world are suffering besides you," said the inner voice; and May went straight to the drawing-room door and opened it.