On the morrow, in another charming corner of the familiar club, he told her his intention, and she tried to disguise how much it startled her. When she had "hoped that he hadn't received bad news" and he had said briefly that he hadn't, there was a pause. In his endeavour to be casual he had been curt, and both were conscious of it. He wondered if he had hurt her. Perhaps he should have offered an excuse for his sudden leave-taking? He began to invent one--and she politely dismissed it. He was certain now that he had hurt her. After all, why not be candid? He leant forward, and spoke in a lowered tone: "Do you know why I'm going? I'm going because, if I stopped, I should make a fool of myself again." The cup in her hand jerked. She felt suffocating, voiceless. Not a word came from her. "I'm remembering that discretion is the better part of valour, Miss Barton." "How do you mean?" she faltered. "I'm running away in time. You see, I--I made a mistake: I reckoned you wouldn't be dangerous to me any more, and I was wrong.... So you won't think me ungrateful for going, will you? You've given me some very happy hours; I don't want you to think I didn't appreciate them. But I appreciate, too, the fact that you're a successful woman and that I've even less to hope for now than I had before. I went through hell about you once, dear--I couldn't stick it twice." Her hand was passed across her eyes, and she trailed it on her skirt. "Are you running away from--from my success? If I cared for you, do you think my success would matter?" "Do you care for me?" His voice shook, like hers. He hated the chattering groups about them, as he bent conventionally over the tea-table. "Do you mean you could give your position up to be my wife?" She rose. Her lips twitched before her answer came. It came in a whisper: "You've never seen my rooms. Will you drive me there?" And on the way she was very quiet. The taxi stopped. In a dingy street she took a latchkey from her pocket, and opened a door, from which a milk-can hung. Perplexed, he followed. She led him to a parlour--a pitiable parlour, with atrocious oleographs on drab walls, and two mottled vases on a dirty mantelpiece. "This," she said dryly, "is where I live. You see the celebrity at home." He tried to take her to him, and she drew swiftly back. "I have failed," she cried; "no one has read my books; I'm as poor as when you knew me first. I've spent years in holes like this! I've shammed to you because I was ashamed. My talk of people I know, of places I go to has been lies--I know no one, I go nowhere. I refused to marry you, when I was a girl, because I didn't think it good enough for me; before you stoop to ask me again, go away and think whether it's good enough for _you_. I've lost my hopes, my youth, my looks--you'd be giving me everything, and I should bring you nothing in return!" His arms were quick now, and they held her fast.