This, Phyllis supposed, was a little reckless aside for her alone. She felt a bright seed of anger in her; it was sprouting, climbing up the trellis of her nerves. She had a fine fertility for anger; her mind was shallow soil as its bottom had never been spaded: such seeds could not root deeply and slowly, so they shot upward in brilliant quick-withering flower. The rising warmth medicined her empty sickness. He was cruel, but she loved him for it and could have prostrated herself at his feet. What right had he to be so untouched, so happy and certain and sure? His mind was one, not broken up into competing yearnings. “Competition is the life of trade,” she said. Looking up, she wondered if she had said something accidentally witty. From the other side of the room Ruth was regarding her strangely. Beyond Ruth, black against the blanched evening, were George and Joyce on the veranda steps.... Oh, so that was what Martin had meant? Ben’s face was so perplexed and bored, she took pity on him. “What would you people like to do? Play cards? We can’t dance, there isn’t any music.” Ruth was quite content not to dance; she suspected she would have had to take Ben as a partner. “Ben’s favourite game is Twenty Questions,” she said. “Gracious, I haven’t played that in ages. It’ll be rather fun. Here come the others, let’s do it.” George seemed almost like a stranger, Phyllis thought. She had an impish desire to ask to be introduced. It amused her to think that any one should want to kiss him. “What a gorgeous night.” He spoke loudly, rather as if someone might contradict. “Here’s your scarf,” he added, almost roughly, holding it out to Joyce. Then he remembered, and gave it to Ruth. “How funny you are,” said Martin. “You made the same mistake again.” “Thank you so much,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry you had such a long hunt for it.” Joyce crossed the room in silence. Ruth’s eyes followed her, and it was in Ruth’s face that Phyllis first saw Joyce was beautiful. She brought some of the moonlight with her. No man can ever admire a woman’s loveliness as justly as another woman, for he rarely understands how her fluctuating charm depends on the hazard of the instant. Something had happened to make Joyce beautiful, and Phyllis was surprised by an immense compassion. This creature too was lonely, had her bewildered tumult in the blood, was defenceless and doomed. Ruth’s watchful eyes, unseen by Joyce, were asking her whether she had anything to say for herself, anything that could be used against her. And Ruth (Phyllis could see) was as outraged by Joyce mute as she would have been at anything she said.