She had a queer sensation that the back of her dress was open and reached unconsciously to button it. How silly, of course it’s not open, it fastens on the shoulder.... A cake, a cake ... there was a warm whiff of burning candles in the room. She knew now what it must be; what he had begun to tell her in the garden.... They were all crowding round her, tall people, voices coming down from above, wanting her to explain. Two more questions ... _one_ would do! Martin was standing behind George, he looked eager and yet anxious. She remembered now: the mouse, the mouse she had brought him; it was such a little thing; chosen and cherished for her difficult own; and the joy of giving away what was dearest ... joy embittered by hostile scrutiny.... Everything was all tangled up together. What had she given, a mouse to Martin or her truth to George? Oh, the pride, the fierce pride of now telling her pitiable secret. She could see the stripy pattern of George’s coat, she knew exactly how it smelled. George looked eager and yet anxious---- No, George, no! her mind was crying miserably. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you; I gave it to _him_---- She must not tell them that she had guessed it. George must be spared this last inconceivable edge of irony; and Martin must go away before either of them found out. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t get it.” George caught her arm as she swayed. “I don’t feel very well. Please forgive me. I think I’ll go to bed.” * * * * * “I knew she wouldn’t guess it,” said Ruth. “Of course it wasn’t really fair,” said George. “She couldn’t possibly know about the slice of cake Mr. Martin had. But it was queer how close she came.” XVI