put on her hat and then
go down, tell her Aunt Lena that she must go in an hour, and talk to
her, give herself up to her till the taxi came. No, it would be
impossible for him to arrive before she left; she was foolish to worry
about it. It was pure nonsense--merely a nervous fear.

When she had put on her hat, it flashed into her mind that Mr. Bingham
was coming to dinner, ostensibly to meet her. After their talk together
she must write to him. She must scribble a little note and get it taken
to All Souls. She must tell him that she had to leave Oxford quite
unexpectedly.

She sat down at her writing table and took up a pen. She wrote a few
words, and thought the words too cold and too abrupt. She must begin
again, and she tore up the letter and threw it into the waste-paper
basket. She wanted to write sympathetically and yet not to appear to
think he needed sympathy. She wanted to write as if she was very much
disappointed at not meeting him again, but without putting it into words
that would sound self-assured--as if she knew and counted on his being
grateful at her disappointment. And indeed, she thought, he was not much
in love with her. Why should he be? That was a question May always asked
herself when a man professed to be in love with her. Why? Why in the
name of all----, etc. May always failed to see why.

This lack of vanity in May had led many people, who did not understand
her, to accuse her of flirting.

But May, in writing to Bingham, realised to the full _his_ attractions.
He was too interesting a personality to be going about unclaimed. He
ought to make some woman happy--some nice woman--not herself.

She began a fresh letter and was at the first sentence when a knock came
at the door.

"Come in," she called.

In came Louise, looking full of sinister importance. Her hair, which was
never very tidy, looked as if it had taken an intelligent interest in
some crisis.

Louise glanced round the room at the luggage, at the coat, at the hat on
May's head.

"Oh, Madame, what a desolation!" cried Louise, and she wrung her hands.

"I have packed very well, Louise," said May Dashwood. "I am accustomed
to do it--I have no maid."

"Oh, what a desolation!" repeated Louise, as she advanced further into
the room. Then she stopped and announced, with an affectation of
horrible composure: "I come to inform Madame that it is impossible for
her to depart."

May put down her pen. "What is the matter, Louise?"