“I know,” she said, and her voice was rather breathless. “I know I asked you to take me with you, and you thought I meant it--passionately. And when the strike was declared I still insisted. And I took this room, calling ourselves Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. And now I’m here alone with you, and of course you expect--need I be coarse, Louis? I’ve been fencing up until this moment. Now I’ve got to be frank. I don’t love you; not passionately nor tenderly. I don’t even like you. I’ve been using you, that’s all. One is more likely to choose a person for use, whom one doesn’t even like ... rather despises--but anyway, you were the only man handy; and the only man vain enough to believe that woman throws away her all for sweet passion’s sake. You knew so much about women, you see.” “Yes. And you know nothing about men. For instance, I’m not going to spend the night in conversation, however interesting.... If it were not so melodramatic as to arouse your sense of humour again, my dear Ursula, I should say that you were in my power.” She sighed. “I was silly to mock at you and make you more angry. Now I suppose we shall have to struggle and dodge about, and the chairs will get disordered, and my hair will come down--and there will be a great bruise on my wrist, just _here_, where you finally grip it----” “And then?” demanded Louis. He was watching her intently, but the hot bulging look was gone from his eyes. “I shan’t give in,” she whispered. “But--must we? Must I get the table between me and you, or threaten to hurl myself from the window? I don’t even hate you. I don’t love another man. I haven’t lost my head. It’s nothing of that sort, nothing so stark and simple. I wanted--oh well, it’s no good telling you what I wanted, it would take too long, and you’re anxious to start being mannish.” And mischief still sparkled through her resignation to the inevitable conflict. Louis, surprisingly, said he would like to hear what she wanted. “Well----” She paused. The exquisite shape of her pale gold head was motionless as an oval plaque between the two candle-spears on the tall bureau behind her. “Well--can you imagine the miracle--of running away with oneself--cut off all round as though with a sharp clean knife? After one has been clogged and clogged with people. _Men?_... And I’m in love with loneliness.” Suddenly she flung her hands above her head, the palms upturned and curved as though for water from heaven.... Then slowly sank them again, remembering that the reason she had left her husband was that he loved another girl, and that she desired them to be happy together. “Forget if I’ve said anything crazy. Quite frankly and simply, Louis, I’ve left Doug because he’s in love with Christine--the thin, brown-eyed child staying with us at Grey Stone. And she’s in love with him. It’s quite a romance, isn’t it?” “Quite,” Louis assented gravely.