Chapter XV

WHEN her brother had gone Mary sat for some time trying to adjust her ideas to the new situation. She had not, until now, taken James's plans very seriously. James had so many plans. But if Julius was right these particular plans were plans no longer, they were arrangements.

She did not trust Julius, when it occurred to her to call his word in question, but his phrase "the interests of the shareholders" struck her as familiar and significant. There was very little in the way of long hours and low wages and bad conditions that the interests of the shareholders would not cover. She could see too that a managing director whose pockets were well lined with the shareholders' money might feel himself under an almost quixotic obligation to restore the prosperity which he had endangered. "The interests of the shareholders"--how smoothly, how easily, it would come from James's lips, and how conscious he would be, as he said it, of his virtue and honesty!

If she was right and if Julius was right he must not be given a chance of saying it. She would have to find courage and strength enough to stop him. But first, before she spoke to him about it, she must collect some reliable information. She could not go to James and defy his wishes on the strength of some casual remarks made by Julius. She would go to the London Library, when her head was not aching so badly, and find out there if there was anything written upon the subject. She could not remember anything to the point in the books that she had read. It was a pity that Miss Percival had gone; even Rosemary and Anthony might have helped her.

She was leaning back in her chair, tired and in pain, when she was again interrupted by her maid, half hidden this time by an elaborate basket of flowers. A young man from the office had brought them, she said, and a message from the master that he was sorry he would be kept late.

Mary could see that the young man had chosen the basket himself, guided probably by the florist's assistant. It was wreathed with pink satin ribbon elegantly fringed, and over the edge of it fell trails of smilax enriched with gardenias. Mary told Penn to put it down on a table in the corner. How tactless James was, she thought, to treat her like this! What good did he think he would do, except to his messenger? She could imagine the pride of the young man from the office as he chose the flowers with the strongest scent. Perhaps some day, when his salary was raised, he would go to a suburban shop and buy a basket of flowers as like it as he could for a little girl at the Hammersmith Alhambra. She called her maid back from the door--she would go to bed now, and think about dinner in bed.

James, meanwhile, was getting through his work as fast as he could in order to see Mary before she went to sleep. He felt extraordinarily sorry for Mary. He couldn't bear to think of the bad time the poor little thing must be having. The night before, and that morning, he had been angry with himself and therefore a little inclined to be annoyed with her. He had been a fool to tell her the truth, and she had behaved in a melodramatic and hysterical manner. But his anger with himself, under the pressure of business, diminished to an occasional uneasy pang, and his kind heart filled instead with solicitude for Mary. Women are hysterical creatures--one must take it and leave it at that. The thing had been a nasty shock for Mary, a very nasty shock indeed. He must be patient with her poor little attempts at scolding and make things up to her in every way he could. She had convinced herself, probably, that he didn't love her. Well, he had got to show her that he did. Women, he told himself, respond to affectionate violence. His policy then was to overwhelm her with love. He had neither the time nor the inclination to search his heart in any thorough manner, but he accepted easily enough the standpoint that he had been to blame. Of course he had been to blame. There could be no doubt about it, but that was no reason for worrying himself. A little patience, a little tact, and it would all come right. It was not for him to take things too seriously--poor little Mary, bless her, would do that for both of them.

He could say this the more cheerfully because to his honest belief he had not been to blame in the least. He had felt himself at the time to be behaving in a perfectly natural manner. He and Greta had been good friends once, he couldn't have snubbed her and wounded her pride. He was a kind man, he could not keep all his kindness for Mary. Afterwards he had known no protest of conscience that had not been settled by the necklace which was now Mary's favourite. Men are men, and Mary, if she only knew it, was a damned lucky woman. He had obeyed the promptings of his good nature in being decent to poor old Greta, nobody had been hurt by it, certainly not Mary--in fact for some time afterwards he had felt particularly fond of her. Her horror when she had heard of it, he saw now, was of a piece with her reluctant, fastidious approach to the sensual side of life and of human nature. As far as life and human nature went he regarded her views as altogether unsound, but he approved of them as the views of his wife and indeed of the wives and daughters of all decent men. It was this ignorance on the part of women that made decent men feel tender and chivalrous--he had always tried to be chivalrous towards Mary. Now, unhappy little creature, she was suffering, actually ill, because of his blundering tongue. She was paying now for her years of comfortable blindness. Well, that was wrong. There was a great deal of sin and misery in this world, but Mary was one of the women who, by common agreement, are relieved from suffering their share.

He was unable to imagine now why he had hesitated to lie to Mary. It had been a shocking lack of self-control. His real remorse for having made Mary suffer he mistook for an admission that he had been to blame in the beginning.

In his lunch hour, and when he paused for a belated tea, he wondered what he could do to comfort her. He particularly wanted her comforted because in a day or two he would have to ask for her consent to the reconstruction of the Imperial. It was an appalling nuisance that the two matters ran together like this. He decided finally, supposing she were in bed, to have dinner before he saw her, for he was aware as a general principle that one is never at one's tenderest and most persuasive between one's dinner and a hard day's work.

When he was cleaned and comfortable, fed and soothed, he went lightly up the stairs to Mary's room. At the door he paused for a moment. "Poor little thing!" he thought. "Now, you brute, be kind to her!"

Mary had heard his footstep, and had quickly turned out the light. He could not see, as he leaned over the bed, the anxiety on her face.

He felt for her hand. "Little mother," he said when he held it, "have you forgiven me?"

The sound of his voice, though she was waiting for it, made Mary start. When he had spoken she lay still for a moment confused and surprised. Why did he speak like this, what was going on in his mind? She could not tell in the least, she felt, what feelings were prompting him. She wished he would let go of her hand, the insistence of his touch was unpleasant. "I don't know, James," she said at last, "I have tried to!"

He sat down on the bed beside her and with his other hand stroked her cheek. "If you were to try a little harder," he asked, "couldn't you forgive me? Even although I don't deserve it?"

Mary moved her aching head further from his hand. She could not think, she felt, with these cigar-scented fingers against her face. "Yes,--I can forgive you, at least I think so," she told him, her whole mind bent on an effort to be honest, "but even if I forgive you, it will still be different."

James bent nearer her. "What will be different, little wife of mine? My love for you has never been different!" Then, as she did not answer, he slipped one arm under her shoulders and lifted her until her head lay against his neck. "Do you remember the last time you were ill?" he asked her, "how you said that I could take the pain away? The things that matter will never be different, Mary,--this isn't different!" and he kissed her softly.

For a moment Mary lay still. After the jar of pain which his movement had caused, it seemed so simple, so natural, to lie in the circle of James's familiar arm, to feel his kisses on her tired face, that for a moment she accepted it; then as his clasp grew tighter she realised what she was doing. She was accepting the warmth and comfort of his caresses exactly as he himself had accepted the kisses of the other woman. James felt her body stiffen. "Please don't kiss me," she said, "I had rather you didn't."

Her words shocked him, and he put her down. From her cold tired voice he realised that something was different. He got up from the bed and without thinking, mechanically, since the darkness oppressed him, he switched on the lamp of the bed.

Mary gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands, but not before James had seen it, white and ravaged, surrounded untidily by her ageing hair. A deep discouragement came over him. He felt as if the tie which had held her to him had slipped from his hand. The figure which lay quivering in the bright circle thrown by the lamp was unfamiliar and repellent, he could not imagine it as the body of his friend and his lover. "I beg your pardon," he said, "is the light too much for you? Shall I turn it down again?"

Mary moved her hands; he could see her dark eyes between them, and their puckered lids. "Yes, if you don't mind," she said, "my eyes are aching!"

James pressed the switch again and she was hidden. He stood still for a minute, his discouragement turning already into a practical perplexity. "You mean, I suppose," he said at last, "that you don't love me any more?"

Mary tried to answer truthfully. "I don't know," she said, "I expect I shall love you again when I've got more used to it, but I don't know if I shall ever love you like that!"

"My love doesn't matter then?" he pressed. "After all these years you've grown indifferent to it?"

Mary did not answer. She did not wish to say anything hard or bitter, but as the memory of his love rose before her she could see it only as a long tyranny, a hypocrisy, an exaction. James's discomfort deepened. "You women are not very merciful," he said.

Mary's thoughts were blotted out by a sudden rush of misery and impatience. If only James would go away--what use could there possibly be in talking like this! It was with an effort that she forced herself to answer him. "I'm sorry, James," she told him, "but I can't help it."

He fidgeted for a little with the edge of her quilt, but no fresh way of approach presented itself. Before Mary's obstinacy his mind seemed heavy. She was not in a state, he told himself, when she could be reasoned with. "Perhaps you'd rather I went?" he asked her, his uneasiness showing even in his voice.

Mary was not in a state, either, to notice the tones and inflections of people's voices. She assented at once. "Yes, please, James, I would--I really am sorry."

"Good-night then." He spoke quickly and turned away without waiting to hear whether she answered. Outside the door his doubt rose coldly before him. "I'm damned if I know what to do!" he said, and went downstairs.

Inside, Mary lay sobbing with her face in the pillow. Now that she had sent him away she was sorry for James. For a moment she saw him, not as her erring husband, but as a man who had asked for forgiveness and been refused. Then her sorrow turned to resentment again. If she had been cruel it was he who had made her cruel, it was he who had robbed her of her love for him!

As the night passed her tired mind became incapable of coherent thought. The image of James faded to a dim figure, menacing and oppressive, that would not let her rest or sleep. She had never longed for anything, she felt, as she longed for sleep. It seemed the last effort of James's tyranny that he should deny it her.

She slept towards daybreak, and was awakened next morning by Penn bringing her hot water and her letters. There was still no news from Rosemary, but on her breakfast tray, when it came, she found a note from James.

"I will not worry you to-day by trying to see you," it said, "if you had rather not. But if you are well enough I should be glad if you would fix a time for seeing me to-morrow, as there is a most important business matter I want to discuss with you. I hope you have had a good night, and are feeling better."

It was signed with his initials.

Mary stared dully at the familiar writing. So far as she could see it was meant as a threat. She could think of no other motive, for it seemed to her evident that James could, if he liked, have delayed the interview. The letter, on its face, could not show her the nervous impatience which had made the poor man take any positive step rather than admit, by doing nothing, that he was baffled.

If Mary had been another business man James would have cursed her and put her out of his mind until the moment had come for decisive action. But she was not a business man, she was his wife; his whole moral universe was sensitive to her behaviour.

He could not believe in the depth and reality of Mary's feelings. He saw her merely determined to get her own way, and moved by a woman's natural love of scenes. To him the effort she had made, when she gave up her scheme for increasing the waitresses' wages, had seemed perfectly natural. He had imagined that his arguments had shown her how foolish she had been. He had no time himself for brooding over emotions, and he felt no sympathy for people who did. Now, laboriously, he thought out a test for Mary. If she sulked because of what he had done, it was tiresome, but she was within her rights. If she allowed such a thing to affect their business relations she would be palpably, outrageously in the wrong. He was not aware, unfortunate smarting man, how greatly he longed to put her in the wrong. The idea of a business interview, which she could hardly refuse to grant, revealed itself to him merely as a means for making her treat him in a normal manner. He would be very kind and patient, and after a little she would forget that they weren't on their usual terms. He would give her, to begin as well as end with kindness, a whole day to recover herself and to get rid of her headache. For a whole day he would allow this wretched state of things to go on. For a whole day the head of the house would remain downstairs in disgrace, deprived of the pleasant greeting and intercourse that were his by right. If he had ever known anything of Mary that could hardly fail to impress her, and the scheme, as he would unfold it to her, could hardly fail either to touch her imagination. She would be pleased by his proposal to give all the girls a day's wages to celebrate it. He need not worry, everything would come right, but he could not shake off an annoying uneasiness.

Mary, meanwhile, was unaware of his chagrin and his penance. In twenty-four hours, then, he was going to force on her another discussion--in twenty-four hours the fight would begin again. The talking, the appeals to her feelings--she seemed to remember nothing of her life with James but endless hours of talking. And this time the talking would be of vital importance. Somehow, before it began, she must ensure that she should not give way. Somehow she must arm herself. And she did not even know where to look for her information. Miss Percival was gone, even Rosemary and Anthony were gone. It was impossible that she should make up her mind in a day, and a day that might well be interrupted, if James's spirits rose, by baskets of flowers.

It became very plain to her that the present state of affairs was unendurable. She must do something. She could not remain like this, lurking in her rooms, quivering with the dread of hearing James's hand on the door. She must have, for one thing, more time--time to recover herself, time to decide her duty towards the girls. She must have quiet too, in which she could think. For the last few months she had thrown herself, deliberately, on her feelings. Well, this was what her feelings had done for her. Now she must think, not with the happy excitement of the autumn, but slowly, painfully, confusedly, she must think herself out of this tangle of suffering. She must shut out the feelings that clamoured at her mind, anger, disgust, probably, if she knew it, jealousy; she must detach herself, she must consider herself as if she were another woman. It would not be easy to do. She had cherished her feelings, loved them, indulged them, until they were not easy to deny, but no other way would be fair either to herself or to James.

To succeed she must relieve herself from the burden of fear that lay on her as long as she was in James's house. While he might come upon her at any moment her feelings were her master. She could not but shrink from him, she could not see the lilies and the pink ribbon of his basket without disgust. She must go away. It was not a new idea. It had been in her mind the day before, and that morning when she awoke. Then she had put it aside as too strange to be worthy of scrutiny. Now, after the added pressure of James's letter, it did not seem strange, but familiar and feasible. "I could do it," she told herself. Then for a moment her thoughts seemed to stop, to shrink in fear. When the fear passed she knew that she had decided. She would go.

Now that her decision was made its grounds came very clearly before her mind. There was no other way of escape from the ugliness of foolish, wordy quarrels between her and James. She could not think and make an important choice under such influences. The harshness and resentment of dispute would warp her judgment and twist her estimates.

A knock at the door made her start violently for fear lest it might be James who had changed his mind. The door opened on a maid who had come for her breakfast tray, but the start, with its accompanying pang of fear and dismay, was the best of reasons, Mary felt, for carrying out her decision. And yet even now she knew that it was not her only reason. She did not go as some women might have gone, desperately and in despair. She had suffered, and been afraid, but she did not go broken or maimed. She had chosen to go, she went of her deliberate will; below the sharp sorrow of her wounded love new life was stirring. She rang for Penn to dress her, and while she lay waiting this faint excitement grew. Never for a moment, she thought, had she been free. Now she was to know freedom.

While she was being dressed she put everything from her mind but the details of her plan. Practically there was no great difficulty. Rosemary was gone. Laura did not need her. The issue lay simply between her and James. As for what she should do, she must stay in London to be near the information she needed. She would not be longer than she could help in a hotel where people come and go, she would find a tiny furnished house or a little flat. She would live very simply; it would not be right, she felt, to pamper herself while she was doing such an unusual thing.

When Penn's ministrations were over she left the house on foot and walked to Oxford Street, where she took a passing taxi. She had decided to go to a house agent from whom she had once or twice taken houses for shooting and summer holidays. She would not need to give him another reference, and James was not likely to make a search for her that would involve asking questions of house agents. At the thought of a search she felt a little quiver of fear, then she forced herself to think again of the matter in hand. Until she was safe in her flat she must consider nothing else but getting there.

At the house agent's she told the young man behind the counter that she wanted to take, as soon as possible, a small furnished flat in Chelsea. It was all very simple. Chelsea, in February, seemed lavish of furnished flats, all small, all delightfully situated, all ready for her immediate occupation. Even when she had rejected the handsomely furnished and the cosy she left the office with a substantial bundle of permits.

The first flat that she visited had often been let for short periods, and it seemed a little weary of the life. The second had shelves for photographs and vases hanging down the back of its cottage piano. The third looked on to a garage, the fourth was both expensive and unusual, but she decided that it would do. There was very little furniture in it, for one thing. For another, it reminded her of Rosemary.

The lady who showed it to Mary was younger and more friendly than such ladies are wont to be. She was Mrs. Jenkins, the porter's wife, and she had a sister who for twelve shillings a week would come in every day and do for Mrs. Heyham with pleasure. The sister herself would willingly have taken less, but Jenkins had his ideas on the subject. He had his ideas, it seemed, on several subjects, for his wife went on to explain that she hoped that Mrs. Heyham would not want a hot meal in the middle of the day, as the hour before half-past one engaged all the skill of both ladies in the preparation of dinner for the porter.

Mary thanked Mrs. Jenkins and returned to the agent's office. She had chosen a flat, it appeared, whose owner was in London. The agent would telephone through at once, and find out if she would accept Mrs. Heyham's offer. If she did accept, as the agent thought she would--Mary had made no difficulties about the price, and had offered to pay the first quarter in advance--and if, further, Mrs. Heyham was willing to let the firm make the inventory for both parties, there was no reason why she should not go in, if she wished it, that very afternoon.

Mary was willing to let the firm do anything that would spare her a night at a hotel. She had never been alone at a hotel, and she was afraid of meeting people she knew, of being stared at when she went to engage her room. With house agents, and their inventories and documents, on the other hand, she was familiar.

The agents produced the form of agreement in use on the estate, and Mary signed it. She would come back, she told the man, at half-past three. That, she thought, would allow her an ample margin of time before James came home, and it would not be too late for a respectable woman to arrive at a hotel if the lady to whom the flat belonged should resent being hurried. Meanwhile she could pack and then write her letter to James.

Her packing did not take long. She decided to take very little with her, as she did not want Penn to think that she was going away for more than a few days.

The letter, when she sat down before her desk, was as difficult to write as she had expected. Mary could write charming notes, and her correspondence had been much valued by her aunts in her younger days for the clever amusing way in which she told funny stories about the children. But she had not the habit of expressing her conclusions in written words or of stating an argument. She would have liked this letter to James to be a close expression of herself. She would have liked it to soften the shock it must inflict by a manner of wording that should recall her to him at her most normal, her kindest, her most familiar. "It mustn't seem excited," she told herself, "I must write as if I were doing the usual sensible thing,"--but she knew that she was asking too much of her own skill.

"My dear James," she left it at last, "I am sending this to the office so that you need not let the servants know what has happened. When you get home you will find that I have gone away. The reason that I am going is that I want to think things over and decide what I ought to do before I see you again. I want to decide freely, for myself, and when you are with me I cannot think. You said I was cruel--I don't want to be cruel, but when we are talking together I can think of nothing but not giving way to you against my will. It is very difficult for me to resist you when you are there. I have decided to go to-day because you ask me to let you see me to-morrow. I suppose what you want to see me about is turning the business into a public company. I am very sorry, James, but I cannot consent until I know a little more about it. I don't believe it will be for the good of the employees. I want to find that out before I talk it over with you. And I think too, that I was wrong when I told you that I would give way to you on the question of wages. I thought then that it was my duty to give way because you were my husband. Now I feel that perhaps I ought to have thought first of my duty to the girls. I want to decide that too before I see you again. And besides that I do not think, after what you told me the other day, that I could go back to our ordinary life together just yet. You would want me to, and we should quarrel about it and grow bitter towards one another. It would be so terrible if that happened. But if only I can have time to think it over, I feel that perhaps I shall be able to see a way out. It will all come to seem more ordinary and I shall not mind so much of course. You will feel that I ought to have asked you first whether I might go. I couldn't, James. I felt that I could not bear another argument so soon. And I should not have changed my mind. I will send my address to the bank so that they can forward letters. I shall have gone from Victoria before this reaches you."

A regard for the dignity of the occasion made her sign it with her whole name.

It was the sort of letter, she told herself as she sealed its envelope, that a school-girl might have written. In her own mind she had discussed the matter until reason lay piled upon reason and explanation upon explanation. But her words, laboriously chosen, seemed, when she had read them through, to have lost their meaning. It was impossible to guess how much of her thought they would make clear to James.

It was three o'clock now, and Penn came to tell her that the car was waiting. She looked hastily round the room, and her eye fell upon the unhappy basket which had seemed so desirable to James's clerk. As she went down the stairs she wondered why its ridiculous pink ribbons had made her angry. She would have done better if she had laughed at it. Well, she was going now! There would be no basket in her room to-night.

She told the man to drive to Victoria and there she put her luggage in the cloak-room. Then she took a taxi to the house agent's office. The house agent received her with smiles. All was well. The owner would sign the agreement, and the agent's men at that very moment were making the inventory. Mrs. Heyham could have the keys, he should say, in under an hour. With such a modern style of furnishing the inventory was not a lengthy matter.

Mary had to think carefully before she decided what she should do next. She must take her luggage away from Victoria, she decided, before she sent James's letter. He was certain to ring up the chauffeur and ask where she had gone. And she might just as well, with an hour before her, get something to eat. She had had no time for lunch.

She fetched the luggage in yet another taxi, and then entrusted the letter to a district messenger. He seemed young and irresponsible for so grave a task--she found it difficult not to tell him that he must be particularly careful. After that she drove to a rival tea-shop and ordered poached eggs on toast, with the taxi ticking extravagantly outside. When the eggs came their whites had a curious crumbling consistency, and she wished that she had ordered something else. But she ate them, for she did not like to hurt the attendant's feelings. James was proud of the eggs that appeared upon the Imperial's tables.

Mary was sorry that the rules of this company did not allow its damsels to receive tips. She would have liked, if only by a lavish scattering of such things as tips, to ensure some good results for her enterprise.

The agent's clerk, obliging man, had the keys ready for her, and with them an assurance of his best attention at all times, and particularly if Mrs. Heyham should happen to be thinking of a house in Scotland again this summer.

Mary thanked him and told him she would certainly not overlook his unrivalled selection. He smiled at that, for he had been wondering what had induced such a wealthy lady to descend to a flat in Chelsea. He supposed that she must have lent her town house to a friend for a month or two, and then found that she wanted a place where she could sleep when she came up for shopping. He thought out the matter with unusual care because if there was anything wrong his clients would blame him, he felt, for his incautious hurry. He was so far justified, at any rate, that the bank had honoured Mary's cheque.

When Mary and her cab reached Cheyne Mansions there was at first a slight difficulty over the luggage. The taxi driver was tired of being kept waiting outside shops and offices while Mary transacted business, and he did not offer to carry her things upstairs. Jenkins, his wife said timidly, was out. Finally, since he was out, though it infringed all regulations, she allowed the luggage to go up in the lift. They were not really, she explained, more than what you could easily call hand luggage. Mary's desire to be lavish was again checked. It was too bad of the taxi driver to sulk on his seat instead of offering to help with the things. He was, besides, a man with a face that did not invite generosity. She gave him an extra shilling.

Mrs. Jenkins's sister Guinivere was waiting for Mary in the flat. She was a smiling child of sixteen, and Mary was glad to see her fresh little face. They unpacked together in a friendly fashion, and then Guinivere--they called her Winny at home, she said, her name being Winifred, but Mr. Jenkins thought Guinivere more suitable for service--asked Mary what she would fancy for dinner. Mary would fancy anything that Guinivere could cook nicely, and the young lady departed in high spirits at the prospect of choosing a magnificent chicken. She had long desired to try her hand at a chicken--when such dainties graced the board of Jenkins she was never allowed to touch more than the vegetables, and the bread sauce.

When the door had closed behind Guinivere, Mary went into the sitting-room which had reminded her of Rosemary. This was the moment when, according to her arrangements, she should have sat down on the odd-looking sofa and begun to think. That was what she was here for, to think in quiet. She could not have asked for more in the way of quiet, no one seemed to be stirring in the flats, even the street beneath her windows was empty of noise.

Nevertheless she did not want to think. The calm judicial mood she had meant to evoke escaped her. Instead she felt restless, she wanted to explore her flat and see what there was behind all its doors and in all its cupboards. She wanted to examine the orange-red furniture in the sitting-room, and to decide whether she liked the extraordinary patterns that were painted in gold and silver on its hangings. She could consider nothing else, she felt, until she had considered the room. Something about it was certainly Japanese and yet it wasn't Japanese in the least. She wanted to open all the flat's windows too, and put her head out and look up and down the street. It was in vain that she rebuked herself. This was not like the other furnished houses, it was her adventure, her defence, her stronghold, where nothing mattered but her own will. It was her will now to be foolish and frivolous, to enjoy, as far as she could, the little sensations that were offered her. She could not, though she wished it, feel adequately solemn.

When Guinivere returned with the chicken, Mary was still wandering through the rooms, looking at their astonishing decorations. It was pleasant to help Guinivere lay the table under the pretext of learning where all the things were kept, it was pleasant to hang anxiously with her over the gas cooker, wondering when the moment had come for the chicken's release. It was pleasant to agree that the little bit of burn could not possibly affect the flavour.

After dinner there were the things to put away, just to see that she remembered their places, and the books on the dining-room bookshelves to look through--it was not until nine o'clock that she remembered her letter to the bank. That changed the current of her thoughts. She realised that although she was restless she was also very tired. She realised, too, that James had read her letter, that he was probably at that moment struggling with the emotions her letter had caused. A new fear occurred to her. He was probably very angry--she could not tell in the least how angry he might be. His anger seemed suddenly real to her. Even in the security of her silver walls it made her tremble. Even here he could hurt her. Supposing, to punish her, he intercepted her news of Rosemary. She did not know where to write to Rosemary. Before this fresh anxiety, slight though it was, the last of her excitement disappeared. She went into her bedroom, worried and dispirited, looking forward to a wakeful night. She was astonished when she woke next morning to remember that she had not even heard the funny clock strike ten.