troking the soft
velvet, laying his cheek against it.

"And the desk? You say she sat there while she talked to cook?"

"Yes."

She hated the way he sat down in front of it; in a heap, like a tired
navvy. By her death Marion deprived her of her beautiful lightfooted
lover. But she must wait. He would come back. She became aware that
Roger was speaking to her. It appeared that he had sobbed in his cup and
had sent jets of tea flying over the tablecloth, and he was now
apologising.

"Never heed," she told him comfortingly; "we'll have a clean one for
lunch." "I didn't mean to," he quavered piteously, but she checked him.
Richard had turned over his shoulder a white face.

"She sat here?..."

"Yes. While the cook stood talking to her, she sat there."

"She ... You didn't notice ... when she was sitting there ... if she was
scribbling on the blotter?"

"Yes, she did. I noticed that."

"Ah ... ah...."

* * * * *

She was beside him in the time of a breath. But he had not fainted,
though his head had crashed down on the wood, for his fingers, buried in
his hair, still laced and interlaced. She did not dare touch him; but
she grovelled for the blotter, which at the moment of his groan had
fallen to the floor, and stood staring at it. For a second her attention
was dispersed by a shudder of disgust, for she felt Roger's noisy
mouth-breathing at her ears. Then the proof leapt to her eyes. There was
a rim of plain paper round the calendar on the inside of the cover, and
this was covered with words and phrases written in the exquisite small
script of Marion. "This is the end. Death. Death. Death. This is the
end. I must die. Give him to Ellen. I must die."

Roger tumbled back towards Poppy. "The awful sin of self-destruction!"
he wailed.

This proof struck through her with an awful, unifying grief. She had had
evidence of Marion's intention which had convinced her mind, but it was
all derived from ugliness: from the awkwardness of the woman's talk, the
plainness of the face against the glass, the intrusive loitering of a
squat figure in the garden. The soul had hearkened to these ugly
messengers from reality since it had desired to know the truth, but it
had made them cry their message from as far off as possible and as
briefly as might be. But this lovely black arabesque of letters had the
power of beauty. It ran into the core of her soul and told its story at
its leisure. Her fles