The bell rang softly in its usual way. The incident had been an accident; an illusion. Even so; she had been prepared for it, without knowing she was prepared, otherwise she would not have understood so fully and instantly. If she had only imagined it, it had changed everything, her interpretation of it was prophetic; just as before he had not known where they were so now the rupture was imminent whether he knew it or no. She found herself going upstairs breathing air thick with pain. This was dreadful.... She could not bear much of this.... The patient had gone. He would be alone. They would be alone. To be in his presence would be a relief ... this was appalling. This pain could not be endured. The sight of the room holding the six months would be intolerable. She drew her face together, but her heart was beating noisily. The knob of the door handle rattled in her trembling hand ... large flat brass knob with a row of grooves to help the grasp ... she had never observed that before. The door opened before her. She flung it wider than usual and pushed her way, leaving it open ... he was standing impermanently with a sham air of engrossment at his writing table and would turn on his heel and go the moment she was fairly across the room. Buoyant with pain she flitted through the empty air towards the distant bracket-table. Each object upon it stood marvellously clear. She reached it and got her hands upon the familiar instruments ... no sound; he had not moved. The flame of the little spirit-lamp burned unwavering in the complete stillness ... now was the moment to drop thoughts and anger. Up here was something that had been made up here, real and changeless and independent. The least vestige of tumult would destroy it. It was something that no one could touch; neither his friends nor he nor she. They had not made it and they could not touch it. Nothing had happened to it; and he had stood quietly there long enough for it to re-assert itself. Steadily with her hands full of instruments she turned towards the sterilising tray. The room was empty. Pain ran glowing up her arms from her burden of nauseating relics of the needs of some complacent patient ... the room was stripped, a west-end surgery, among scores of other west-end surgeries, a prison claiming her by the bonds of the loathsome duties she had learned. CHAPTER XXI 1