“I've got to tell her.” Ted's smile is a trifle painful. “Got to, you know. Oh not that. But France. The whole business.” “But good heavens, man, you aren't going to make it the start of the conversation?” “Well--maybe not. But it's all got to be--explained. Only way I'll ever feel decent--and I don't suppose I'll feel too decent then.” “But Ted--oh it's your game, of course. Only I don't think it's being--fair--to either of you to tell her just now.” “Can't help it, Ollie.” Ted's face sets into what Oliver once christened his “mule-look.” “I've thought it over backwards and sideways and all around the block--and I can't squirm out of it because it'll be incredibly hard to do. As a matter of fact,” he pauses, “it'll tell itself, you know, probably,” he ends, more prophetically than he would probably care to know. “Well, I simply _don't_ see--” “_Must_,” and after that Oliver knows there is very little good of arguing the point much further. He has known Ted for eight years without finding out that a certain bitter and Calvinistic penchant for self-crucifixion is one of his ruling forces--and one of those least easily deduced from his externals. Still he makes a last effort. “Now don't start getting all tied up about that. Keep your mind on Elinor.” “That's not--hard.” “Good--I see that you have all the proper reactions. And you'll excuse me for saying that _I_ don't think she's too good for you--and even if she were she'd have to marry somebody, you know--and when you put it, put it straight, and let Paris and everything else you're worrying about go plumb to hell! And that's good advice.” “I know it. I'll tell you of course.” “Well, I should _think_ you would!” Oliver looks at his watch. “Great Scott--they'll be unmasking in twenty minutes. And I've got to go back and cut Juliet out of the herd and take her to supper--” They rise and look at each other. Then “Hope this is the last time, Ted, old fel--which isn't any reflection on the last eight years odd,” says Oliver slowly, and their hands grip once and hard. Then they both start talking fast as they walk back to the house to cover the unworthy emotion. But just as they are going in the door, Oliver hisses into Ted's ear, an advisory whisper, “Now go and eat all the supper you can, you idiot--it always helps.” XXXI The parti-colored harlequin and the young Chinese lady in blue silks are walking the Italian gardens, talking about nothing in particular. Ted has managed to discuss the moon--it is high now, a round white lustre--the night, which is warm--the art of garden decoration, French, English and Italian--the pleasantness of Southampton after New York--all with great nervous fluency but so completely as if he had met Elinor for the first time ten minutes ago that she is beginning to wonder why, if he dislikes her as much as that, he ever suggested leaving the dance-floor at all.