ad
foreseen that she would hear about the case from others or read about
it in the newspapers. She had not been able to stomach that he should
be at Lechford House alone late at night with two women of the class
she hated and feared--and the very night of her dreadful experience
with him in the bomb-explosion! No explanations could make that
seem proper or fair. Naturally she had never disclosed her feelings.
Further, the frequenting of such a house as Lechford House was more
proof of his social importance, and incidentally of his riches. The
spectacle of his flat showed her long ago that previously she had
been underestimating his situation in the world. The revelations as
to Lechford House had seemed to show her that she was still
underestimating it. She resented his modesty. She was inclined
to attribute his modesty to a desire to pay her as little as he
reasonably could. However, she could not in sincerity do so. He
treated her handsomely, considering her pretensions, but considering
his position--he had no pretensions--not handsomely. She had had an
irrational idea that, having permitted her to see the splendour of
his flat, he ought to have increased her emoluments--that, indeed,
she should be paid not according to her original environment, but
according to his. She also resented that he had never again asked her
to his flat. Her behaviour on that sole visit had apparently decided
him not to invite her any more. She resented his perfectly hidden
resentment.

What disturbed her more than anything else was a notion in her mind,
possibly a wrong notion, that she cared for him less madly than of
old. She had always said to herself, and more than once sadly to him,
that his fancy for her would not and could not last; but that hers
for him should decline puzzled her and added to her grievances against
him. She looked at him from the little nest made by her head between
two pillows. Did she in truth care for him less madly than of old? She
wondered. She had only one gauge, the physical.

She began to talk despairingly about Marthe, whom, of course, she had
had to mention at the door. He said quietly:

"But it's not because of Marthe's caprices that I'm asked to come down
to-night, I suppose?"

She told him about the closing of the Promenade in a tone of absolute,
resigned certainty that admitted of no facile pooh-poohings or
reassurances. And then, glancing sidelong at the night-table, where
the lamp burned, she ex