. Can we exceed nature? In
the presence of the primeval and ever-continuing forces of nature, can we
maintain our fantastic conceptions of sin and of justice? We are, and
that is all we should dare to say. And yet, when I saw Diaz stretched on
that wretched bed my first movement was one of physical disgust. He had
not shaved for several days. His hair was like a doormat. His face was
unclean and puffed; his lips full and cracked; his eyes all discoloured.
If aught can be vile, he was vile. If aught can be obscene, he was
obscene. His limbs twitched; his features were full of woe and desolation
and abasement.

He looked at me heavily, mournfully.

'Diaz, Diaz!' said my soul. 'Have you come to this?'

A great and overmastering pity seized me, and I went to him, and laid my
hand gently on his. He was so nervous and tremulous that he drew away his
hand as if I had burnt it.

'Oh, Magda,' he murmured, 'my head! There was a piece of hot brick in my
mouth, and I tried to take it out. But it was my tongue. Can I have some
tea? Will you give me some cold water first?'

Strange that the frank and simple way in which he accepted my presence
there, and assumed my willingness to serve him, filled me with a new joy!
He said nothing of the night. I think that Diaz was one of the few men
who are strong enough never to regret the past. If he was melancholy, it
was merely because he suffered bodily in the present.

I gave him water, and he thanked me.

'Now I will make some tea,' I said.

And I went into the tiny kitchen and looked around, lifting my skirts.

'Can you find the things?' he called out.

'Yes,' I said.

'What's all that splashing?' he inquired.

'I'm washing a saucepan,' I said.

'I never have my meals here,' he called. 'Only tea. There are two taps to
the gas-stove--one a little way up the chimney.'

Yes, I was joyous, actively so. I brought the tea to the bedroom with a
glad smile. I had put two cups on the tray, which I placed on the
night-table; and there were some biscuits. I sat at the foot of the bed
while we drank. And the umbrella, unperceived by Diaz, lay with its
handle on a pillow, ludicrous and yet accusing.

'You are an angel,' said Diaz.

'Don't call me that,' I protested.

'Why not?'

'Because I wish it,' I said. 'Angel' was Ispenlove's word.

'Then, what shall I call you?'

'My name is Carlotta Peel,' I said. 'Not Magdalen at all.'

It was astounding, incredible, that he should be