at. There was
a triumphant kindliness about her that I found intolerable. She meant to
be so kind to me, to offer unstinted consolation, to meet my needs, to
supply just all she imagined Isabel had given me.

When I left Tarvrille's, I felt I could anticipate exactly how she would
meet my homecoming. She would be perplexed by my crumpled shirt front,
on which I had spilt some drops of wine; she would overlook that by an
effort, explain it sentimentally, resolve it should make no difference
to her. She would want to know who had been present, what we had talked
about, show the alertest interest in whatever it was--it didn't matter
what.... No, I couldn't face her.

So I did not reach my study until two o'clock.

There, I remember, stood the new and very beautiful old silver
candlesticks that she had set there two days since to please me--the
foolish kindliness of it! But in her search for expression, Margaret
heaped presents upon me. She had fitted these candlesticks with electric
lights, and I must, I suppose, have lit them to write my note to Isabel.
"Give me a word--the world aches without you," was all I scrawled,
though I fully meant that she should come to me. I knew, though I ought
not to have known, that now she had left her flat, she was with the
Balfes--she was to have been married from the Balfes--and I sent my
letter there. And I went out into the silent square and posted the note
forthwith, because I knew quite clearly that if I left it until morning
I should never post it at all.

3

I had a curious revulsion of feeling that morning of our meeting. (Of
all places for such a clandestine encounter she had chosen the bridge
opposite Buckingham Palace.) Overnight I had been full of self pity, and
eager for the comfort of Isabel's presence. But the ill-written scrawl
in which she had replied had been full of the suggestion of her own
weakness and misery. And when I saw her, my own selfish sorrows were
altogether swept away by a wave of pitiful tenderness. Something had
happened to her that I did not understand. She was manifestly ill. She
came towards me wearily, she who had always borne herself so bravely;
her shoulders seemed bent, and her eyes were tired, and her face white
and drawn. All my life has been a narrow self-centred life; no brothers,
no sisters or children or weak things had ever yet made any intimate
appeal to me, and suddenly--I verily believe for the first time in my
life!--I felt a