Then the vision of Everard, sitting solitary with his newspaper and by this time, too, probably thinking only of love, and anyhow not happy, caused one of those very impulses to lay hold of her which she had a moment before been telling herself she would never give way to again. She was aware one had gripped her, but this was a good impulse,--this wasn't a bad one like running out into the rain: she would go down and have another try at that door. She was warmed through now and quite reasonable, and she felt she couldn't another minute endure not being at peace with Everard. How silly they were. It was ridiculous. It was like two children fighting. Lizzie was so long bringing her clothes; she couldn't wait, she must sit on Everard's knee again, feel his arms round her, see his eyes looking kind. She would go down in her blanket. It wrapped her up from top to toe. Only her feet were bare; but they were quite warm, and anyhow feet didn't matter. So Lucy padded softly downstairs, making hardly a sound, and certainly none that could be heard above the noise of the wind by Lizzie in the bedroom, frantically throwing clothes about. She knocked at the library door. Wemyss's voice said, 'Come in.' So he had unlocked it. So he had hoped she would come. He didn't, however, look round. He was sitting with his back to the door at the writing-table in the window, writing. 'I want my flowers in here,' he said, without turning his head. So he had rung. So he thought it was the parlourmaid. So he hadn't unlocked the door because he hoped she would come. But his flowers,--he wanted his birthday flowers in there because they were all that were left to him of his ruined birthday. When she heard this order Lucy's heart rushed out to him. She shut the door softly and with her bare feet making no sound went up behind him. He thought the parlourmaid had shut the door, and gone to carry out his order. Feeling an arm put round his shoulder he thought the parlourmaid hadn't gone to carry out his order, but had gone mad instead. 'Good God!' he exclaimed, jumping up. At the sight of Lucy in her blanket, with her bare feet and her confused hair, his face changed. He stared at her without speaking. 'I've come to tell you--I've come to tell you----' she began. Then she faltered, for his mouth was a mere hard line. 'Everard, darling,' she said entreatingly, lifting her face to his, 'let's be friends--please let's be friends--I'm so sorry--so sorry----' His eyes ran over her. It was evident that all she had on was that blanket. A strange fury came into his face, and he turned his back on her and marched with a heavy tread to the door, a tread that made Lucy, for some reason she couldn't at first understand, think of Elgar. Why Elgar? part of her asked, puzzled, while the rest of her was blankly watching Wemyss. Of course: the march: _Pomp and Circumstance_.