I became aware of some one moving about in the passage, and went and shut the door of the room, then I walked back to the hearthrug and turned. “It’s rough on you,” I said. “But I didn’t mean you to know. You’ve never cared for me. I’ve had the devil of a time. Why should you mind?” She sat down in a draped armchair. “I _have_ cared for you,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose,” she said, “_she_ cares for you?” I had no answer. “Where is she now?” “Oh! does it matter to you?... Look here, Marion! This—this I didn’t anticipate. I didn’t mean this thing to smash down on you like this. But, you know, something had to happen. I’m sorry—sorry to the bottom of my heart that things have come to this between us. But indeed, I’m taken by surprise. I don’t know where I am—I don’t know how we got here. Things took me by surprise. I found myself alone with her one day. I kissed her. I went on. It seemed stupid to go back. And besides—why should I have gone back? Why should I? From first to last, I’ve hardly thought of it as touching you.... Damn!” She scrutinised my face, and pulled at the ball-fringe of the little table beside her. “To think of it,” she said. “I don’t believe I can ever touch you again.” We kept a long silence. I was only beginning to realise in the most superficial way the immense catastrophe that had happened between us. Enormous issues had rushed upon us. I felt unprepared and altogether inadequate. I was unreasonably angry. There came a rush of stupid expressions to my mind that my rising sense of the supreme importance of the moment saved me from saying. The gap of silence widened until it threatened to become the vast memorable margin of some one among a thousand trivial possibilities of speech that would vex our relations for ever. Our little general servant tapped at the door—Marion always liked the servant to tap—and appeared. “Tea, M’m,” she said—and vanished, leaving the door open. “I will go upstairs,” said I, and stopped. “I will go upstairs” I repeated, “and put my bag in the spare room.” We remained motionless and silent for a few seconds. “Mother is having tea with us to-day,” Marion remarked at last, and dropped the worried end of ball-fringe and stood up slowly.... And so, with this immense discussion of our changed relations hanging over us, we presently had tea with the unsuspecting Mrs. Ramboat and the spaniel. Mrs. Ramboat was too well trained in her position to remark upon our somber preoccupation. She kept a thin trickle of talk going, and told us, I remember, that Mr. Ramboat was “troubled” about his cannas. “They don’t come up and they won’t come up. He’s been round and had an explanation with the man who sold him the bulbs—and he’s very heated and upset.”