st met you. And another extraordinary thing is
that I still like you very much. Which probably rather annoys you. But I
can't help saying it."

"The opinions of sentimentalists don't interest me one way or the
other," Sylvia snapped.

"Will you answer one question? Will you tell me why you were so pleasant
on the evening we met?"

"I really can't bother to go back as far as that."

"You weren't jealous _then_," Michael persisted.

"Who says I'm jealous now?" she cried.

"I do. What do you think you are, unless you're jealous? When is Lily
coming down?"

"She isn't coming down until you've gone."

"Then I shall go and call her."

"She's not in London."

"I don't believe you."

A second deadlock was reached. Finally Michael decided to give Sylvia
the pleasure of supposing that he was beaten for the moment. He
congratulated himself upon the cunning of such a move. She was obviously
going to be rather difficult to circumvent.

On the steps of the balcony he turned to her:

"You hate me because I love Lily, and you hate me twice as much because
Lily loves me."

"It's not true," Sylvia declared. "It's not true. She doesn't love you,
and what right have you to love her?"

She tossed back her mane of brown hair, biting her nails.

"What college was your husband at?" Michael suddenly inquired.

"Balliol."

"I wonder if I knew him."

"Oh, no. He was older than you."

It was satisfactory, Michael thought as he walked down Tinderbox Lane,
that the conversation had ended normally. At least, he had effected so
much. She had really been rather wonderful, that strange Sylvia. He
would very much like to pit her against Stella. It was satisfactory to
have his doubts allayed: notwithstanding her present opposition, he felt
that he did owe Sylvia a good deal. But it would be absurd to let Lily
continue in such a life: women always quarreled ultimately, and if
Sylvia were to leave her, her fall would be rapid and probably
irredeemable. Besides, he wanted her for himself. She was to him no less
than to Sylvia the most beautiful thing in the world. He did not want to
marry a clever woman: he would be much more content with Lily, from whom
there could be no reaction upon his nerves. Somehow all his theories of
behavior were being referred back to his own desires. It was useless to
pretend any longer that his pursuit had been quixotry. Even if it had
seemed so on that night when he first heard the news of Lily from Dr