And Ursula took this, how? But it was impossible to _be_ Ursula as well as Ursula’s lover. So the girl in the scene remained always objective, seen but not felt. She was sweet, but adamant, this Ursula, and elusive with some mysterious want he could not satisfy. The man wondered what it was; and “I wonder, too,” reflected Ursula, puzzled, in her rôle of lover, by the subtleties of her own projection. Games--but it was good-bye to them now! They would not play themselves elsewhere but alone in the room. The summons to tea left her still crouching before her bowl of red fire. Tea!--if she as much as opened that door, all the widened feuds and jealousies and passions, pressing against the farther side, would tumble in. The door was a barricade. Who knows how much fresh horror had accumulated beyond it since dinner, or how many irretrievable blows newly dealt, or old injuries exhumed from burial? Restraint was inside out. It might stop anywhere, or--it might never stop ... since Nina had begun to be hysterical, and Aunt Lavvy proved an enemy, and Bunny was shockable, and Father was beastly to Mother, Mother starting such odd sentences that she nearly finished--but not quite--so that you caught your breath; and Mother hating Aunt Lavvy, and Grace huffy, and Gums and Stanley blacklegging from the Maxwell Union, and Nurse speaking her mind, and the servants a nudging community of gossip, and all the rooms chaotically surrendered for quarrel, and Hal morally in the dock.... Nobody kind, oh, nobody kind, and Mr. Fennimore expected tonight! The blessing of being out of it! Ursula forgot, for the moment, that if she stuck to her purpose, solitude was already a fugitive with a price upon its head. Revelling in the four quiet walls, she reached out an indolent hand for the crumpled sheet of newspaper in which to pick up more coal. She had no shovel. It was last Sunday’s paper. She glanced at it, after laying the coal in the shaking hollows of flame. Glanced ... and then was absorbed.