To this he said nothing at all, and she realized that her carefully drilled waggishness, which she kept for callers, would descend upon her in a minute. She struggled against it. She had a forlorn desire to feel real for a few moments, to say things she believed. But of its own accord an archly playful remark popped out. “Now you mustn’t let us bore you, you must feel free to do whatever you want. I think it’s dreadful to force guests to be amused.” “I feel awfully free. Don’t you?” This was so unexpected that her mind went quite blank. There seemed no possible reply that was worth making. “I should like to lie in bed and laugh,” he said calmly. Phyllis tried to think of something to laugh about. It suddenly struck her that there are days when one does not laugh at all. Evidently this was one of them. The world had swinked, and looped its wild orbit for uncountable ages, all to produce this latest moment of lucid afternoon: and yet what cause was there for mirth? But she felt that if she could produce a clear chime of amusement it would be a mannerly and attractive thing to do. She opened her mouth for it, but only managed a sort of satiric cackle. “You mustn’t _try_ to laugh,” he said. “It’s bad for you.” She wondered whether she ought to pretend offence. Of course I’m not really offended: there’s something so gently impersonal about his rudenesses. In this dreadful vortex of life that seems to spin us round and round, how amazing to find someone so completely nonchalant, so ... so untouched by anxiety ... as though his mind had never been _bruised_. (When she found the right word she always liked to think of it as underlined.) She had often wondered, hopefully, if she would ever be tempted beyond her strength. Absurd: this was the sort of thing that simply didn’t happen to ... to nice people. But there was a warm currency in her blood, radiant and quivering. She ought to go indoors and lie down ... lie on her bed and laugh ... but feeling her knees tremble she remembered that the underskirt was very sheer, and in that violent sunlight, walking across the lawn, he would see an ungraceful bifid silhouette ... you can’t really shock women, but you have to be so careful not to startle men ... without seeming to pay special attention he was evidently terribly observant.... What was it George had said once? that she was so beautiful his eye always enjoyed imagining the lines of her ... her.... No, _body_ is a horrid word ... her figure ... under her thin dress. George was so carnal. And worse than that, apologetic for it. Mr. Martin isn’t carnal ... and if he were, he wouldn’t deprecate it. “All the things I like are bad for me.”