utterly free; and yet for two months he had kept her out of
these splendours, prevented her from basking in the glow of these
chandeliers and lounging on these extraordinary sofas and beholding
herself in these terrific mirrors. Even now he was ashamed to let his
servants see her. Was it altogether nice of him? Her verdict on him
had not the slightest importance--even for herself. In kissing other
men she generally kissed him--to cheat her appetite. She was at his
mercy, whatever he was. He was useful to her and kind to her; he might
be the fount of very important future advantages; but he was more than
that, he was indispensable to her. She walked exploringly into the
little glittering bedroom. Beneath the fantastic dome of the bed the
sheets were turned down and a suit of pyjamas laid out. On a Chinese
tray on a lacquered table by the bed was a spirit-lamp and kettle, and
a box of matches in an embroidered case with one match sticking out
ready to be seized and struck. She gazed, and left the bedroom, saying
nothing, and wandered elsewhere. The stairs were so infinitesimal
and dear and delicious that they drew from her a sharp exclamation of
delight. She ran up them like a child. G.J. turned switches. In the
little glittering dining-room a little cold repast was laid for two on
an inlaid table covered with a sheet of glass. Christine gazed, saying
nothing, and wandered again to the drawing-room floor, while G.J.
hovered attendant. She went to the vast Regency desk, idly fingering
papers, and laid hold of a document. It was his report on the
accountacy of the Lechford Hospitals in France. She scrutinised it
carefully, murmuring sentences from it aloud in her French accent. At
length she dropped it; she did not put it down, she dropped it, and
murmured:

"All that--what good does it do to wounded men?... True, I comprehend
nothing of it--I!"

Then she sat to the piano, whose gorgeous and fantastic case might
well have intimidated even a professional musician.

"Dare I?" She took off her gloves.

As she began to play her best waltz she looked round at G.J. and said:

"I adore thy staircase."

And that was all she did say about the flat. Still, her demeanour,
mystifying as it might be, was benign, benevolent, with a remarkable
appearance of genuine humility.

G.J., while she played, discreetly picked up the telephone and got the
Marlborough Club. He spoke low, so as not to disturb the waltz, which
Christine in h