painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never
known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her
tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life,
and to brighten it he had ruled off few corners for romance. The Miss
Schlegels--or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them--were
to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that
he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a
debauch, an outlet, though the worst of outlets, for instincts that
would not be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions
and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he had
scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some pleasant memories.
Perhaps the keenest happiness he had ever known was during a railway
journey to Cambridge, where a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken
to him. They had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung
reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles and hinted at the
rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a friendship, asked
him to "coffee after hall," which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy,
and took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged.
He did not want Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, still less with
Jacky, and people with fuller, happier lives are slow to understand
this. To the Schlegels, as to the undergraduate, he was an interesting
creature, of whom they wanted to see more. But they to him were denizens
of Romance, who must keep to the corner he had assigned them, pictures
that must not walk out of their frames.

His behaviour over Margaret's visiting-card had been typical. His
had scarcely been a tragic marriage. Where there is no money and no
inclination to violence tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave
his wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor were
enough. Here "that card" had come in. Leonard, though furtive, was
untidy, and left it lying about. Jacky found it, and then began, "What's
that card, eh?" "Yes, don't you wish you knew what that card was?" "Len,
who's Miss Schlegel?" etc. Months passed, and the card, now as a joke,
now as a grievance, was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It
followed them when they moved from Camelia Road to Tulse Hill. It was
submitted to third parties. A few inches of pasteboard, it became the
battlefield on which the souls of Leonard a