LITMIR.BIZ

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a bath.”

      “You could — you might have some of Cyril’s clothes — and the water’s hot. I know. At all events, you can stay to supper —”

      “If I’m going I shall have to go soon — or they’d not like it, if I go in late; — they have no idea I’ve come; — they don’t expect me till next Monday or Tuesday —”

      “Perhaps you could stay here — and they needn’t know.” They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes — like children on the brink of a stolen pleasure.

      “Oh, but what would your mother think! — no, I’ll go.”

      “She won’t mind a bit.”

      “Oh, but —”

      “I’ll ask her.”

      He wanted to stay far more than she wished it, so it was she who put down his opposition and triumphed.

      My mother lifted her eyebrows, and said very quietly: “He’d better go home — and be straight.”

      “But look how he’d feel — he’d have to tell them . . . and how would he feel! It’s really my fault, in the end. Don’t be piggling and mean and Grundyish, Matouchka.”

      “It is neither meanness nor Grundyishness —”

      “Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun —!” exclaimed Lettie, ironically. “He may certainly stay if he likes,” said Mother, slightly nettled at Lettie’s gibe.

      “All right, Mutterchen — and be a sweetling, do!”

      Lettie went out a little impatient at my mother’s unwillingness, but Leslie stayed, nevertheless.

      In a few moments Lettie was up in the spare bedroom, arranging and adorning, and Rebecca was running with hot-water bottles, and hurrying down with clean bedclothes. Lettie hastily appropriated my best brushes — which she had given me — and took the suit of pyjamas of the thinnest, finest flannel and discovered a new tooth-brush — and made selections from my shirts and handkerchiefs and underclothing — and directed me which suit to lend him. Altogether I was astonished, and perhaps a trifle annoyed, at her extraordinary thoughtfulness and solicitude.

      He came down to supper, bathed, brushed, and radiant. He ate heartily and seemed to emanate a warmth of physical comfort and pleasure. The colour was flushed again into his face, and he carried his body with the old independent, assertive air. I have never known the time when he looked handsomer, when he was more attractive. There was a certain warmth about him, a certain glow that enhanced his words, his laughter, his movements; he was the predominant person, and we felt a pleasure in his mere proximity. My mother, however, could not quite get rid of her stiffness, and soon after supper she rose, saying she would finish her letter in the next room, bidding him good-night, as she would probably not see him again. The cloud of this little coolness was the thinnest and most transitory. He talked and laughed more gaily than ever, and was ostentatious in his movements, throwing back his head, taking little attitudes which displayed the broad firmness of his breast, the grace of his well-trained physique. I left them at the piano; he was sitting pretending to play, and looking up all the while at her, who stood with her hand on his shoulder.

      In the morning he was up early, by six o’clock downstairs and attending to the car. When I got down I found him very busy, and very quiet.

      “I know I’m a beastly nuisance,” he said, “but I must get off early.”

      Rebecca came and prepared breakfast, which we two ate alone. He was remarkably dull and wordless.

      “It’s a wonder Lettie hasn’t got up to have breakfast with you — she’s such a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning — its purity and promises and so forth,” I said.

      He broke his bread nervously, and drank some coffee as if he were agitated, making noises in his throat as he swallowed.

      “It’s too early for her, I should think,” he replied, wiping his moustache hurriedly. Yet he seemed to listen for her. Lettie’s bedroom was over the study, where Rebecca had laid breakfast, and he listened now and again, holding his knife and fork suspended in their action. Then he went on with his meal again.

      When he was laying down his serviette, the door opened. He pulled himself together, and turned round sharply. It was Mother. When she spoke to him, his face twitched with a little frown, half of relief, half of disappointment.

      “I must be going now,” he said —“thank you very much — Mother.”

      “You are a harum-scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn’t come down. I know she is up.”

      “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I must get off.”

      “I’ll call her.”

      “No — don’t bother her — she’d come if she wanted —”

      But Mother had called from the foot of the stairs. “Lettie, Lettie — he’s going.”

      “All right,” said Lettie, and in another minute she came downstairs. She was dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was somewhat pale. She did not look at any of us, but turned her eyes aside.

      “Good-bye,” she said to him, offering him her cheek. He kissed her, murmuring, “Good-bye — my love.”

      He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with beseeching eyes. She kept her face half averted, and would not look at him, but stood pale and cold, biting her under-lip. He turned sharply away with a motion of keen disappointment, set the engines of the car into action, mounted, and drove quickly away.

      Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments. Then she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping her head bent down, her face hidden.

      In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left something behind. He ran upstairs, and then, hesitating, went into the room where Lettie was still sitting at table. “I had to come back,” he said.

      She lifted her face towards him, but kept her eyes averted, looking out of the window. She was flushed.

      “What had you forgotten?” she asked.

      “I’d left my cigarette-case,” he replied.

      There was an awkward silence.

      “But I shall have to be getting off,” he added.

      “Yes, I suppose you will,” she replied.

      After another pause, he asked:

      “Won’t you just walk down the path with me?”

      She rose without answering. He took a shawl and put it round her carefully. She merely allowed him. They walked in silence down the garden.

      “You — are you — are you angry with me?” he faltered. Tears suddenly came to her eyes.

      “What did you come back for?” she said, averting her face from him. He looked at her.

      “I knew you were angry and —” he hesitated.

      “Why didn’t you go away?” she said impulsively. He hung his head and was silent.

      “I don’t see why — why it should make trouble between us, Lettie,” he faltered. She made a swift gesture of repulsion, whereupon, catching sight of her hand, she hid it swiftly against her skirt again.

      “You make my hands — my very hands disclaim me,” she struggled to say.

      He looked at her clenched fist pressed against the folds of her dress.

      “But —” he began, much troubled.

      “I tell you, I can’t bear the sight of my own hands,” she said in low, passionate tones.

      “But surely, Lettie, there’s no need — if you love me —”

      She

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