To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen inquired politely after Ralph. ‘He’s in London on business for a couple of days; he’s all right, thanks,’ Angela answered briefly, and she turned once more to sorting her stockings. Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth had a childish droop at the corners; there were quite new shadows, too, under her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her pallor. And as though that earnest gaze made her nervous, she suddenly bundled the stockings together with a little sound of impatience. ‘Come on, let’s go down to my room!’ And turning to her maid: ‘I’d rather you washed the new nightgowns, please.’ They went down the wide oak stairs without speaking, and into the little oak panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then they faced each other. ‘Well, Angela?’ ‘Well, Stephen?’ And after a pause: ‘What on earth made you send that absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and began to ask questions. You are such an almighty fool sometimes—you knew perfectly well that I couldn’t come back. Why will you behave as though you were six, have you no common sense? What’s it all about? Your methods are not only infantile—they’re dangerous.’ Then taking Angela firmly by the shoulders, Stephen turned her so that she faced the light. She put her question with youthful crudeness; ‘Do you find Roger Antrim physically attractive—do you find that he attracts you that way more than I do?’ She waited calmly, it seemed, for her answer. And because of that distinctly ominous calm, Angela was scared, so she blustered a little: ‘Of course I don’t! I resent such questions; I won’t allow them even from you, Stephen. God knows where you get your fantastic ideas! Have you been discussing me with that girl Violet? If you have, I think it’s simply outrageous! She’s quite the most evil-minded prig in the county. It was not very gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss my affairs with our neighbours, was it?’ ‘I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,’ Stephen told her, still speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: ‘Was it all a mistake? Is there no one between us except your husband? Angela, look at me—I will have the truth.’ For answer Angela kissed her. Stephen’s strong but unhappy arms went round her, and suddenly stretching out her hand, she switched off the little lamp on the table, so that the room was lit only by firelight. They could not see each other’s faces very clearly any more, because there was only firelight. And Stephen spoke such words as a lover will speak when his heart is burdened to breaking; when his doubts must bow down and be swept away before the unruly flood of his passion. There in that shadowy, firelit room, she spoke such words as lovers have spoken ever since the divine, sweet madness of God flung the thought of love into Creation.