She put her hand on my chest. Her eyes were tormented. “How can I answer you now?” she said. “How can I say anything now?” “What do you mean?” I asked. She made no answer. “Do you mean it must be ‘No’?” She nodded. “But” I said, and my whole soul was full of accusations. “I know,” she said. “I can’t explain. I can’t. But it has to be ‘No!’ It can’t be. It’s utterly, finally, for ever impossible.... Keep your hands still!” “But,” I said, “when we met again—” “I can’t marry. I can’t and won’t.” She stood up. “Why did you talk?” she cried, “couldn’t you _see?_” She seemed to have something it was impossible to say. She came to the table beside my bed and pulled the Michaelmas daisies awry. “Why did you talk like that?” she said in a tone of infinite bitterness. “To begin like that!” “But what is it?” I said. “Is it some circumstance—my social position?” “Oh, _damn_ your social position!” she cried. She went and stood at the further window, staring out at the rain. For a long time we were absolutely still. The wind and rain came in little gusts upon the pane. She turned to me abruptly. “You didn’t ask me if I loved you,” she said. “Oh, if it’s _that!_” said I. “It’s not that,” she said. “But if you want to know—” She paused. “I do,” she said. We stared at one another. “I do—with all my heart, if you want to know.” “Then, why the devil—?” I asked. She made no answer. She walked across the room to the piano and began to play, rather noisily and rapidly, with odd gusts of emphasis, the shepherd’s pipe music from the last act in “Tristan and Isolde.” Presently she missed a note, failed again, ran her finger heavily up the scale, struck the piano passionately with her fist, making a feeble jar in the treble, jumped up, and went out of the room.... The nurse found me still wearing my helmet of bandages, partially dressed, and pottering round the room to find the rest of my clothes. I was in a state of exasperated hunger for Beatrice, and I was too inflamed and weakened to conceal the state of my mind. I was feebly angry because of the irritation of dressing, and particularly of the struggle to put on my trousers without being able to see my legs. I was staggering about, and once I had fallen over a chair and I had upset the jar of Michaelmas daisies. I must have been a detestable spectacle. “I’ll go back to bed,” said I, “if I may have a word with Miss Beatrice. I’ve got something to say to her. That’s why I’m dressing.” My point was conceded, but there were long delays. Whether the household had my ultimatum or whether she told Beatrice directly I do not know, and what Lady Osprey can have made of it in the former case I don’t imagine. At last Beatrice came and stood by my bedside. “Well?” she said. “All I want to say,” I said with the querulous note of a misunderstood child, “is that I can’t take this as final. I want to see you and talk when I’m better, and write. I can’t do anything now. I can’t argue.”