not be pleased by the
issue. I may find that whereas yesterday I was great in my sinfulness,
and to-day am great in my love, you, in your hate of me, are small. I
may find that what I had taken to be a great indifference is nothing but
a very small hate... Ah, I have wounded you? Forgive me, a weak woman,
talking at random in her wretchedness. Oh John, John, if I thought you
small, my love would but take on the crown of pity. Don't forbid me to
call you John. I looked you up in Debrett while I was waiting for you.
That seemed to bring you nearer to me. So many other names you have,
too. I remember you told me them all yesterday, here in this room--not
twenty-four hours ago. Hours? Years!" She laughed hysterically. "John,
don't you see why I won't stop talking? It's because I dare not think."

"Yonder in Balliol," he suavely said, "you will find the matter of my
death easier to forget than here." He took her hat and gloves from the
arm-chair, and held them carefully out to her; but she did not take
them.

"I give you three minutes," he told her. "Two minutes, that is, in
which to make yourself tidy before the mirror. A third in which to say
good-bye and be outside the front-door."

"If I refuse?"

"You will not."

"If I do?"

"I shall send for a policeman."

She looked well at him. "Yes," she slowly said, "I think you would do
that."

She took her things from him, and laid them by the mirror. With a high
hand she quelled the excesses of her hair--some of the curls still
agleam with water--and knowingly poised and pinned her hat. Then, after
a few swift touches and passes at neck and waist, she took her gloves
and, wheeling round to him, "There!" she said, "I have been quick."

"Admirably," he allowed.

"Quick in more than meets the eye, John. Spiritually quick. You saw me
putting on my hat; you did not see love taking on the crown of pity, and
me bonneting her with it, tripping her up and trampling the life out of
her. Oh, a most cold-blooded business, John! Had to be done, though. No
other way out. So I just used my sense of proportion, as you rashly
bade me, and then hardened my heart at sight of you as you are. One of
a number? Yes, and a quite unlovable unit. So I am all right again. And
now, where is Balliol? Far from here?"

"No," he answered, choking a little, as might a card-player who, having
been dealt a splendid hand, and having played it with flawless skill,
has yet--damn it!--lost the odd tri