an Italian dentist, with
a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against
passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then, to his relief, she
began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of it. I love him, and
I'm going to Sawston, and if I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes,
I shall die."

In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of
her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw
that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and
needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the
only reply he could trust himself to make.

"Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"

She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far
as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once
aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember
what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so
nothing can alter me now."

"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say
what he wanted.

"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"

"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"

"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she
had hoped.

"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together.
Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent
forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the
world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in
common?"

"Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was
crimson. He turned his own face away.

"Which--which times?"

"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to
get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may
have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with
music and light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you opened
the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church,
I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as
we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of
the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could
have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath
of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."

"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted