“He’s been so good. It isn’t reasonable, Isaac. When anyone has—_slaved_.” “I don’t say he isn’t a good sort of chap,” said Sir Isaac, with that same note of almost superhuman rationality, “only—he isn’t going to run my hostels.” “But what do you mean, Isaac?” “I mean you got to choose.” He waited as if he expected her to speak and then went on. “What it comes to is this, Elly, I’m about sick of that chap. I’m sick of him.” He paused for a moment because his breath was short. “If you go on with the hostels he’s—Phew—got to mizzle. _Then_—I don’t mind—if you want that girl Burnet brought back in triumph.... It’ll make Mrs. Pembrose chuck the whole blessed show, you know, but I say—I don’t mind.... Only in that case, I don’t want to see or hear—or hear about—Phew—or hear about your Mr. Brumley again. And I don’t want you to, either.... I’m being pretty reasonable and pretty patient over this, with people—people—talking right and left. Still,—there’s a limit.... You’ve been going on—if I didn’t know you were an innocent—in a way ... I don’t want to talk about that. There you are, Elly.” It seemed to her that she had always expected this to happen. But however much she had expected it to happen she was still quite unprepared with any course of action. She wanted with an equal want of limitation to keep both Mr. Brumley and her hostels. “But Isaac,” she said. “What do you suspect? What do you think? This friendship has been going on——How can I end it suddenly?” “Don’t you be too innocent, Elly. You know and I know perfectly well what there is between men and women. I don’t make out I know—anything I don’t know. I don’t pretend you are anything but straight. Only——” He suddenly gave way to his irritation. His self-control vanished. “Damn it!” he cried, and his panting breath quickened; “the thing’s got to end. As if I didn’t understand! As if I didn’t understand!” She would have protested again but his voice held her. “It’s got to end. It’s got to end. Of course you haven’t done anything, of course you don’t know anything or think of anything.... Only here I am ill.... _You_ wouldn’t be sorry if I got worse.... _You_ can wait; you can.... All right! All right! And there you stand, irritating me—arguing. You know—it chokes me.... Got to end, I tell you.... Got to end....” He beat at the arms of his chair and then put a hand to his throat. “Go away,” he cried to her. “Go to hell!” §4