“It’s only fair to warn you,” Maud was crying from her table, “that I’m a vile fellow-traveller. Hate travelling.” She rose and wandered to the window behind her table. “You’re going to take away our property?” Here she was, the unknown Miss Hollebone, close at hand, flopped in a chair, school-girlish. “Rather!” Here in this warm circle was the old freemasonry of school-fellows, two profiles slightly turned, abrupt remarks, punctuated by jabbings at ink-stained desks, the sense of power and complete difference in relation to a stuffy old world; sudden glances, perfect happiness. Happiness that kept both quite still; hearing, feeling, seeing, in a circle of light suddenly created, making possible only slight swift words in whose echo one forgot which had spoken, which was which. “What are we to do?” They faced each other to laugh delight. “Don’t know. What we really want is _your_ socialism in _our_ world. The socialist ways you have in your world without knowing it, because you know no other ways.” “You don’t object to us?” “Good Lord, no! But just to cultivate you would be to go to sleep as you are all asleep.” “You a Londoner?” “Till death us do part.” “Lucky dog!” Eaden was at her elbow to whom she turned with a guarded brightness, slipped back into her own world, into the half-conscious conspiracy of avoidance. Orderly world. A pattern world, life flowing in bright set patterns under a slowly gathering cloud. Its echoes followed Miriam into the deserted little salon. Through the open door she heard a coming and going in the hall that at this hour should be empty and eloquent of people spread far and wide in the landscape. The bright pattern was flowing into a fresh shape, flowing forward in its way, heedless of clouds, heedless of the rising tide. On the little table was Daphne’s bear on ski, immortal. And now in the hall the sound of her, demanding. Drawn to the door Miriam saw Vereker taking the stairs two at a time, immersed in friendship. And Eaden arrested in the middle of the hall by Daphne up-gazing with white determined face. “Look at me,” she was saying, and his down-bent face lost its smile. “You’re not to go,” she said swiftly, in casual tone, and then breathlessly, still searching his unmoved face, “You’re not to go.” “That’s right, Daphne,” cried Vereker pausing on the stairs. “Make him stay for the Fest, he wants to.” Eaden watched her while she waited for Vereker’s footsteps to die away, watched her in frowning concentration while her voice came again, the voice of one who tells another’s woe: “Not for the Fest, but because if you go away I shall die.” Miriam turned swiftly back into the room, but she had seen the pain in his face, seen him wince. Daphne on her last words had taken a little impatient step and stood averted with clenched fists, and now their voices were going together up the stairs, hers eagerly talking. * * * * *