Sheila paused. ‘Could _any_ woman answer such a question?’ she almost sighed at last. ‘Yes, but,’ Lawford pressed on, in a voice almost naive and stubborn as a child’s, ‘If I tried to—to make you? I did once, Sheila.’ ‘I can’t, I can’t conceive such a position. Surely that alone is almost as frantic as it is heartless! Is it, is it even right?’ ‘Well, I have not actually asked it. I own,’ he added moodily, almost under his breath, ‘it would be—dangerous.... But there, Sheila, this poor old mask of mine is wearing out. I am somehow convinced of that. What will be left, God only knows. You were saying—’ He rose abruptly. ‘Please, please sit down,’ he said; ‘I did not notice you were standing.’ ‘I shall not keep you a moment,’ she answered hurriedly; ‘I will sit here. The truth is, Arthur,’ she began again almost solemnly, ‘apart from all sentiment and—and good intentions, my presence here only harasses you and keeps you back. I am not so bound up in myself that I cannot realise _that_. The consequence is that after calmly—and I hope considerately—thinking the whole thing over, I have come to the conclusion that it would arouse very little comment, the least possible perhaps in the circumstances, if I just went away for a few days. You are not in any sense ill. In fact, I have never known you so—so robust, so energetic. You will be alone: Mr Bethany, perhaps.... You could go out and come in just as you pleased. Possibly,’ Sheila smiled frankly beneath her veil, ‘even this Dr Ferguson you have invented will be a help. It’s only the servants that remain to be considered.’ ‘I should prefer to be quite alone.’ ‘Then do not worry about _them_. I can easily explain. And if you would not mind letting her in, Mrs Gull can come in every other day or so just to keep things in order. She’s entirely trustworthy and discreet. Or perhaps, if you would prefer—’ ‘Mrs Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It’s very good of you to have given me so much thought.’ A long and rather arduous pause followed. ‘Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr Critchett—do you remember?—the night you first came home. I think, too, after the first awful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referred to—to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least ask that, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice’s sake, if not for mine, to do nothing rash.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposed possible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui—‘nothing rash.’