Rodney's windows, which were a semilucent red color, in her honor, as
she knew. He had asked her to tea with him. But she was in a mood when
it is almost physically disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one's
thought, and she walked up and down two or three times under the trees
before approaching his staircase. She liked getting hold of some book
which neither her father or mother had read, and keeping it to herself,
and gnawing its contents in privacy, and pondering the meaning without
sharing her thoughts with any one, or having to decide whether the book
was a good one or a bad one. This evening she had twisted the words of
Dostoevsky to suit her mood--a fatalistic mood--to proclaim that the
process of discovery was life, and that, presumably, the nature of one's
goal mattered not at all. She sat down for a moment upon one of the
seats; felt herself carried along in the swirl of many things;
decided, in her sudden way, that it was time to heave all this thinking
overboard, and rose, leaving a fishmonger's basket on the seat behind
her. Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon Rodney's
door.

"Well, William," she said, "I'm afraid I'm late."

It was true, but he was so glad to see her that he forgot his annoyance.
He had been occupied for over an hour in making things ready for her,
and he now had his reward in seeing her look right and left, as she
slipped her cloak from her shoulders, with evident satisfaction,
although she said nothing. He had seen that the fire burnt well;
jam-pots were on the table, tin covers shone in the fender, and the
shabby comfort of the room was extreme. He was dressed in his old
crimson dressing-gown, which was faded irregularly, and had bright new
patches on it, like the paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone.
He made the tea, and Katharine drew off her gloves, and crossed her legs
with a gesture that was rather masculine in its ease. Nor did they talk
much until they were smoking cigarettes over the fire, having placed
their teacups upon the floor between them.

They had not met since they had exchanged letters about their
relationship. Katharine's answer to his protestation had been short and
sensible. Half a sheet of notepaper contained the whole of it, for she
merely had to say that she was not in love with him, and so could not
marry him, but their friendship would continue, she hoped, unchanged.
She had added a postscript in which she stated, "I like your