"Stop laughing!" she ordered. She added quietly: "Yes, you look as if you've been in an ink-storm--it's all over your coat and collar. What made them rag you?" "They hate me." "Why?" He pondered, made suddenly serious, and then said: "God knows." She did not answer for some time. Then she suddenly went over to the china cupboard and began taking out crockery. Once again his eyes had something to rivet themselves upon; this time her small, immensely capable hands as she busied herself with the coffee-pot. "And you thought I should find it amusing?" she said, moving about the whole time. As she continued with the preparations she kept up a running conversation. "Well, I _don't_ find it amusing. I think it's very serious. You came here last summer term and at first you were well liked, fairly successful, and happy. Now, two terms later, you're apparently detested, unsuccessful, and--well, not so happy as you were, eh? What's been the cause of it all? You say God knows. Well, if He does know, He won't tell you, so you may as well try to find out for yourself." And she went on: "I don't want to rub it in. Forgive me if I am doing so." Something in the calm kindliness of her voice made him suddenly bury his head in his hands and begin to sob. He gasped, brokenly: "All right.... Clare.... But the future.... Oh, God--is it _all_ black? ... What--_what_ can I do, Clare?" She replied, immensely practical: "You must control yourself. You're hysterical--laughing one minute and crying the next. Coffee will be ready in a while--it'll quiet your nerves. And the future will be all right if only you won't be as big a fool as you have been." Then he smiled. "You _do_ tell me off, don't you?" he said. "No more than you need.... But we're talking too much. I don't want you to talk a lot--not just yet. Sit still while I play the piano to you." She played some not very well-known composition of Bach, and though when she began he was all impatience to talk to her, he found himself later on becoming tranquil, perfectly content to listen to her as long as she cared to go on. She played quite well, and with just that robust unsentimentality which Bach required. He wondered if she had been clever enough to know that her playing would tranquillise him. When she had finished, the coffee was ready and they had a cosy little armchair snack intermingled with conversation that reminded him of his Cambridge days. He would have been perfectly happy if he had not been burdened with such secrets. He wanted to tell her everything--to show her all his life. And yet whenever he strove to begin the confession she twisted the conversation very deftly out of his reach. At last he said: "I've got whole heaps to tell you, Clare. Why don't you let me begin?" She looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. "Do you _really_ want to begin?" "Yes." "Begin then."