she could not see.
Suddenly, without the least warning, she turned her head in Arthur's
direction. Their eyes met. She blushed faintly, and, at the same
moment, became aware of Mrs. Payne. The blush deepened, spreading into
the ivory whiteness of her neck; and Mrs. Payne had no need to look at
her any longer, for she knew.

Her mind leapt quickly to the whole situation. In the light of this
evidence she recalled a hundred things that had not even puzzled her
before. She saw the reason for the strange fate that had overtaken
their correspondence, she divined the secret of Gabrielle's sudden
reticence, and the break in Arthur's frank enthusiasms. She knew that
she had made a triumphant discovery, but in her elation realised that
it would be wiser to go gently. This was a secret that could not be
blurted out without disaster. The situation needed careful handling.

Once in possession of certain knowledge it was no longer difficult for
her to interpret Arthur's moods. In the afternoon when they sat out
under the trees on the lawn, she stumbled on a strange corroboration.
She had fallen into a doze in a lounge chair at his side, and when she
awoke she saw that he was reading poetry. He seemed to be reading one
poem over and over again, and a sudden curiosity made her ask what he
was reading. "Tennyson," he said, and closed the book. But he had
left a long grass for marker between the pages, and when they moved
towards the house at tea-time she picked up the book and opened it.
Her eyes fell upon a significant stanza from "Maud."

She came to the village church,
And sat by a pillar alone;
An angel watching an urn
Wept over her, carved in stone:
And once, but once, she lifted her eyes,
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blushed,
To find they were met by my own ...

Mrs. Payne's heart beat faster as she read the verse. Later in the
day, to test him, she asked him what he had been reading. She half
expected him to tell her a lie, but, strangely enough, it was the truth
that he gave her.

"What do you like about 'Maud'?" she said.

"I like it all," he replied. "It's the kind of thing that anyone might
feel." He hesitated. "And there's one part of it in particular----"

She waited, with her heart in her mouth.

"What is that?" she said.

"Oh, right at the beginning. I don't suppose it would mean much to
you. I can't remember it exactly, but it starts like this:

I hate the dreadful