And then Delia's manner began to change towards me. The ease of our intercourse vanished. I felt she was learning to dislike me. I grinned, and capered, and scowled, and posed at her in a thousand ways, and knew--with what a voiceless agony!--that I did it all the time. I tried to resign again, and Barnaby talked about "X" and "Z" and "Y" in the _New Review_, and gave me a strong cigar to smoke, and so routed me. And then I walked up the Assyrian Gallery in the manner of Irving to meet Delia, and so precipitated the crisis. "Ah!--_Dear!_" I said, with more sprightliness and emotion in my voice than had ever been in all my life before I became (to my own undoing) a Dramatic Critic. She held out her hand rather coldly, scrutinising my face as she did so. I prepared, with a new-won grace, to walk by her side. "Egbert," she said, standing still, and thought. Then she looked at me. I said nothing. I felt what was coming. I tried to be the old Egbert Craddock Cummins of shambling gait and stammering sincerity, whom she loved, but I felt even as I did so that I was a new thing, a thing of surging emotions and mysterious fixity--like no human being that ever lived, except upon the stage. "Egbert," she said, "you are not yourself." "Ah!" Involuntarily I clutched my diaphragm and averted my head (as is the way with them). "There!" she said. "_What do you mean?_" I said, whispering in vocal italics--you know how they do it--turning on her, perplexity on face, right hand down, left on brow. I knew quite well what she meant. I knew quite well the dramatic unreality of my behaviour. But I struggled against it in vain. "What do you mean?" I said, and, in a kind of hoarse whisper, "I don't understand!" She really looked as though she disliked me. "What do you keep on posing for?" she said. "I don't like it. You didn't use to." "Didn't use to!" I said slowly, repeating this twice. I glared up and down the gallery, with short, sharp glances. "We are alone," I said swiftly. "_Listen!_" I poked my forefinger towards her, and glared at her. "I am under a curse." I saw her hand tighten upon her sunshade. "You are under some bad influence or other," said Delia. "You should give it up. I never knew anyone change as you have done." "Delia!" I said, lapsing into the pathetic. "Pity me. Augh! Delia! _Pit_--y me!" She eyed me critically. "_Why_ you keep playing the fool like this I don't know," she said. "Anyhow, I really cannot go about with a man who behaves as you do. You made us both ridiculous on Wednesday. Frankly, I dislike you, as you are now. I met you here to tell you so--as it's about the only place where we can be sure of being alone together"-- "Delia!" said I, with intensity, knuckles of clenched hands white. "You don't mean"-- "I do," said Delia. "A woman's lot is sad enough at the best of times. But with you"-- I clapped my hand on my brow. "So, good-bye," said Delia, without emotion. "Oh, Delia!" I said. "Not _this_?"