For a moment he was busy pouring the water into the teapot. While he did this there was a silence between them. Lady Holme got up from the sofa and walked about the room. When she came to the “_Danseuse de Tunisie_” she stopped in front of it. “How strange that fan is,” she said. Robin shut the lid of the teapot and came over to her. “Do you like it?” “The fan?” “The whole thing?” “It’s lovely, but I fancy it would have been lovelier without the fan.” “Why?” She considered, holding her head slightly on one side and half closing her eyes. “The woman’s of eternity, but the fan’s of a day,” she said presently. “It belittles her, I think. It makes her _chic_ when she might have been--” She stopped. “Throw away your fan!” he said in a low, eager voice. “I?” “Yes. Be the woman, the eternal woman. You’ve never been her yet, but you could be. Now is the moment. You’re unhappy.” “No,” she said sharply. “Yes, you are. Viola, don’t imagine I can’t understand. You care for him and he’s hurting you--hurting you by being just himself, all he can ever be. It’s the fan he cares for.” “And you tell me to throw it away!” She spoke with sudden passion. They stood still for a moment in front of the statuette, looking at each other silently. Then Robin said, with a sort of bitter surprise: “But you can’t love him like that!” “I do.” It gave her an odd, sharp pleasure to speak the truth to him. “What are you going to do, then?” he asked, after a pause. He spoke without emotion, accepting the situation. “To do? What do you mean?” “Come and sit down. I’ll tell you.” He took her hand and led her back to the sofa. When she had sat down, he poured out tea, put in cream and gave it to her. “Nothing to eat,” she said. He poured out his tea and sat down in a chair opposite to her, and close to her. “May I dare to speak frankly?” he asked. “I’ve known you so long, and I’ve--I’ve loved you very much, and I still do.” “Go on!” she answered. “You thought your beauty was everything, that so long as it lasted you were safe from unhappiness. Well, to-day you are beautiful, and yet--” “But what does he care for?” she said. “What do men care for? You pretend that it’s something romantic, something good even. Really, it’s impudent--just that--cold and impudent. You’re a fool, Robin, you’re a fool!” “Am I? Thank God there are men--and men. You can’t be what Carey said.” For once he had spoken incautiously. He had blurted out something he never meant to say. “Mr. Carey!” she exclaimed quickly, curiously. “What did Mr. Carey say I was?” “Oh--” “No, Robin, you are to tell me. No diplomatic lies.” A sudden, almost brutal desire came into him to tell her the truth, to revel in plain speaking for once, and to see how she would bear it. “He said you were an egoist, that you were fine enough in your brilliant selfishness to stand quite alone--” A faint smile moved the narrow corners of her lips at the last words. He went on.