The tiger stepping down his blue plaque. The one thing in the room that nothing could influence. All the other single beautiful things change. They are beautiful, for a moment, again and again; giving out their expression, and presently frozen stiff, having no expression. The blue plaque, intense fathomless eastern blue, the thick spiky grey-green sharply shaped leaves, going up forever, the heavy striped beast forever curving through, his great paw always newly set on the base of the plaque; inexhaustible, never looked at enough; always bringing the same joy.... If ever the memory of this room fades away, the blue plaque will remain.

Mr. Hancock was coming upstairs. In a moment she would know whether any price had been paid; any invisible appointment irrevocably missed.

“Good morning.” The everyday tone. Not the tone of welcome after a holiday.

“Good morning. I’m so sorry I could not get back yesterday.”

“Yes ... I suppose it could not be helped.” He was annoyed. Perhaps even a little suspicious.... “You see, my brother-in-law thought I was still on holiday and free to take my sister home.”

“I trust it is not anything serious.”

“It was just one of her attacks.” Suppose Sarah should have one, at this moment? Suppose it was Sarah who was paying for her escapade? She summoned her despairingly, explaining ... saw her instant approval and her private astonishment at the reason for the deceit.

Supported by Sarah she rounded off her story.

“I see,” said Mr. Hancock pleasantly; weighing, accepting. She stood before him seeing the incident as he would imagine it. It was growing true in her mind. Presently she would be looking back on it. This was how criminals got themselves mixed up....

“I’m glad it was not anything serious,” said Mr. Hancock gravely, turning to the scatter of letters on his table. He was glad. And his kind sympathy was not being fooled. Sarah was always being ill. It was worth a lie to drag her out into the light of his sympathy. A breath of true life, born from a lie.

The incident was at an end, safely through. He was satisfied and believing, gone on into his day. She gathered up his appointment book from under his nose. He was using it, making entries. But he knew this small tyranny was her real apology, a curse for the trouble she had been obliged to give him. While he sat bereft as she took in the items of his day, their silent everyday conversation was knitted up once more. She was there, not failing him. He knew she would always be there as long as he should really need her. She restored the book to its place and stood at his side affectionately watching him tackle his task, detached, aware of her affection, secure in its independence.

They were so utterly far apart, foreigners in each other’s worlds. Irreconcilable.... But for all these years she had had daily before her eyes the spectacle of his life work; the way and the cost of his undeviating, unsparing work. It must surely be a small comfort to him that there had been an understanding witness to the shapely building of his life....

Understanding speech she could never have, with anyone ... except the Taylors, and she was as incompletely in their world as in his. The joy of being with him was the absence of the need for speech. She whisked herself to the door and went out shutting it behind her with a little slam, a last fling of holiday freedom, her communication to him of the store of joy she had brought back, the ease with which she was shouldering her more and more methodical, irrelevant work....

There was nothing to pay. Then the moment over the telegram had been a revelation....

“You ought to see the Grahams. Stay another day and see the Grahams.”

I might have wired asking for another day. Impossible. The day would have been spoilt by the discomfort of knowing him thinking me ungrateful and insatiable.... Only being able to say when I came back that I waited to see a man dying of cancer. He would have thought that morbid. The minute the telegram was sent the feeling of guilt passed away. Whilst Hypo was chuckling over it at the top of the stairs there was nothing and no one. Only the feeling of having broken through and stepped forward into space. Strong happiness. All the next day was in space; a day taken out of life; standing by itself.

Mr. Graham was old-fashioned ... and modern too. He seemed to have come from so far back, to see backwards, understanding, and to see ahead the things he had always known. Serene and interested, in absolutely everything. As much in the tiny story of the threepenny-bit as in anything else, making it seem worth telling, making me able to tell it. Seeing everything as real. Really finding life marvellous in the way no one else seemed to do.... Ill as he was he looked up my trains, carefully and thoughtfully.... The horror and fear of death was taken away from me while I watched him.... Perhaps he had always felt that the marvellousness of there being such a thing as life was the answer to everything.... And now that he was dying knew it more completely?

They were both so serene. Everybody was lifted by being with them into that part of life that goes on behind the life that seems to be being lived....

All the time it was as if they had witnessed that past fortnight and made it immaterial ... a part of the immaterial story of life....

That fortnight had the shape of an arranged story, something playing itself out, with scenes set and timed to come in in the right place. Upset by that one little scene that had come in of itself....

The clear days after the two men had gone back to town. The long talks kept undisturbed.... All the long history of Gissing....

Gissing’s ideal women over-cultivated, self-important creatures, with low-pressure vitality and too little animal.... “You’re rather like that you know.” ...

“Men would always rather be made love to than talked at.”

“Your life is a complex system of evasions. You are a mass of health, unused. You’re not doing any thing with yourself....” “... Two kinds of women, the kind that come it over one, tremendously, and nurses.”

“Most good men are something like chimpanzees. The best man in those relationships is the accomplished rake ... that’s the secret of old Grooge.... Yes; you’d hate him. He’s one of the old school; expert knowledge about women. That’s nonsense of course. There is no expert knowledge about women. Men and women are very much alike. But there’s the honest clean red-blooded people and the posers and rotters and anÆmic people. And there are for your comfort a few genuine monogamists. Very few.”

“You’re stuck, you know. Stuffed with romantic ignorance. You’re a great chap. A gentleman. That’s an insult, isn’t it. You don’t exploit yourself....”

“I’m not sure about you. You’ve got an awfully good life up in town, jolly groups; various and interesting. One hesitates to disturb it.... But we’re old friends. And there’s this silly barrier between us. There always is between people who evade what is after all only the development of the friendly handshake.”

“She’s a very fine artist. Well, she, my dear Miriam, has lovers. They keep her going. Keep her creative. She’s a woman one can talk to.... There’s no tiresome barrier....”

“Your women are a sort of omnibus load.”

“There’s always the box seat.”

“They all grin. Your one idea of women is a grin.”

“There’s a great deal to be said for the cheerful grin. You know, a woman who has the grit to take things into her own hands, take the initiative, is no end of a relief. Women want to. They ought to. They’re inhibited by false ideas. They want, nearly all women want all their corners taken for them.”

“This book’ll be our brat. You’ve pulled it together no end. You ought to chuck your work, have a flat in town. Be general adviser to authors....”

Queer old professor Bolly, pink and white and loud checks, standing outside the summer house in the brilliant sun.

“Is this the factory?”

“This is the factory.”

“Does he dictate to you?”

“My dear Bolly.... Have five minutes; have half a minute’s conversation with Miss Henderson and then, if you dare, try to imagine anyone dictating to her.”

Pink and white. Two old flamingoes. Pulling the other way. Bringing all the old conservative world into the study ... sending it forward with their way of looking at the new things. Such a deep life in them that old age and artificial teeth and veined hands did not obscure their youth. Worldly happy religious musical Englishpeople.

“The Barrie question turns solely upon the question of romance. You cannot, dear young lady, hesitate over Barrie. You must either adore, or detest. With equal virulence. I am one of the adorers. Romance, for me, is the ultimate reality.... Seen through a glass darkly....” On the other side of the room Mrs. Bolly was telling her tales of Bayreuth. They were both untouched by the Wilson atmosphere. Not clever. They brought a glow like fire-light; as if the cold summer hearth were alight, as the scenes from their stories came into the room and stood clear.

The second afternoon Hypo stretched out on the study lounge, asleep, compact and calm in the sunlight like a crusader on a tomb, till just before they went.

“There’s something unconquerable in them.”

“Yes, Miriam. Silliness is unconquerable. Poor old Gourlay; went to Greenland to get away from it. Died to get away from it.”

“Don’t go away. Camp in here. I’m all to bits. You know you’re no end of a comfort to me.”

“I can’t be. You’re hampered all the time I’m here by the silly things I say; the way I spoil your talk.”

“You’ve no idea how much I like having you about. Like the sound of your voice; the way your colour takes the sun, your laughter. I envy you your sudden laughter, Miriam; the way you lift your chin, and laugh. You’re wasted on yourself, Miriam. You don’t know the fine individual things in yourself. You’ve got all sorts of illusions, but you’ve no idea where you really score.”

“Can’t get on with anybody.”

“You get on with me all right. But you never tell me nice things about myself. You only laugh at my jokes.”

“I’ve never told you a hundredth part. There’s never any time. But I’ll tell you one nice thing. There’s a way in which ever since I’ve known you, you obliterate other men. Yes. For me. It’s most tiresome.”

“Oh, my dear! Is that true, Miriam?”

“Oh yes. From the first time I saw you. There you were. I can’t bear your ideas. But I always find myself testing other men, better men, by the way, by you.”

“I haven’t any ideas, Miriam, and I’m a reformed character. There’s heaps of time. You’re here another ten days yet. You shall camp in here. We’ll talk, devastatingly.”

“If I once began——”

“Begin. We’re going to explore each other’s minds.”

“I should bore you to death.”

“You never bore me. Really. It does me good to quarrel with Miriam. But we’re not going to quarrel. We’re going to explore each other and stop nowhere. Agreed?”

“I’ve seen you ill with boredom. You hate silence and you hate opposition. You always think people’s minds are blank when they are silent. It’s just the other way round. Only of course there are so many kinds of silence. But the test of absolutely everything in life is the quality of the in-between silences. It’s only in silence that you can judge of your relationship to a person.” “You shall be silent. You shall deploy a whole regiment of silences ... but you’ll fire off an occasional volley of speech?”

“Real speech can only come from complete silence. Incomplete silence is as fussy as deliberate conversation.”

“One has to begin somewhere. Deliberate conversation leads to real conversation. You can talk, you know, Miriam. You’re not a woman of the world. You don’t come off all the time. But when you do, you come off no end.”

If his mind could be tackled even though there were no words to answer him with, then anyone’s mind could be tackled....

Finding him simple and sad, able to be uncertain, took away the spell from the surroundings; leaving only him.... Seeing life as he saw it, being forced to admit some of his truths, hard and cruel even if rearranged or differently stated, made the world a nightmare, a hard solid daylight nightmare, the only refuge to be, and stay, with him. Yet the giving up of perpetual opposition brought a falseness.... Smiling agreement, with unstated differences and reservations piling up all the time.... Drifting on into a false relationship.

The joy of being with him, the thing that made it worth while to flatter by seeming to agree was more than half the sense of triumphing over other women. Of being able to believe myself as interesting and charming and mysteriously wonderful as all these women we talked about, who lost their wonder as he stated their formula.

By the time the Grimshaws came everything was sad.... That is why I was so successful with them. Gay with sadness, easy to talk to, practised in conversation. Without that they would not have sought me out and carried me off by themselves and shown me their world....

“I’ve been through a terrific catechism.”

“You’ve impressed them, Miriam. I’m jealous. They come here; to see me; and go off with Miriam.”

“Bosh. They thought I was intelligent. They don’t think so now. Besides they really were trying to interview you through me.”

“That’s subtle of you, Miriam. Old James. You’ve no idea how you’re coming on. Or coming out. Yes. I think there’s always been a subtle leap in Miriam. Without words. A song without words. Good formula for Miriam. What did they interview me about?”

“I refused to be drawn. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch she asked me in her Cheltenham voice ‘What do you do with your leishah?’ I think she really wanted statistics; gutter-snipe statistics.”

“She’s an enchantress. No end of a lark, really. She runs old Grimshaw. Runs everybody. You’re rather like her you know. You’ve got the elements, with your wrist-watch. What did you say?”

“Nothing. I haven’t the faintest idea what I do with my leisure. Besides I can’t talk about real things to a bayonet. She is fascinating, though.”

“She’s a gypsy. When she looks at one ... with that brown smile ... one could do anything for her.”

“There you are. Your smiles.... But he’s the most perfect darling. Absolutely sincere. A Breton peasant. I talked to him about some of your definitions. Not as yours. As mine.”

“Never mind. He knew where they came from.”

“Not at all. Only those I thought I agreed with. And he’s given me quite a fresh view of the Lycurgans.”

“Now don’t you go and desert.”

“Well he must be either right or wrong.”

“What a damned silly thing to say. Oh what a damned silly thing to say.”

Chill windy afternoon, grey tamarisks waving in a bleak wind, tea indoors and a fire bringing into the summery daylight the sudden message that summer was at an end. The changed scene chiming together with the plain outspoken anger. Again the enlivening power of anger, the relief of the clean cut, of everything brought to an end, of being once more single and clear, free of everyone, homesick for London....

Mr. Hancock’s showing-out bell sounded in the hall. The long sitting had turned into a short one. No need to go up yet. He’ll come downstairs, pad-pad, flexible hand-made shoes on the thick stair carpet, the sharp turn at the stair-end, the quick little walk along the passage and soft neat clatter of leather heels down the stone stairs to the workshop. Always the same. The same occasion. Which occasion? That used to be so clear and so tremendous. Confused now, but living on in every sound of his footsteps.

Homesick for London. For those people whose lives are set in a pattern with mine, leaving its inner edge free to range.

Perhaps the set pattern is enough. The daily association. The mass of work. Its results unseen. At the end it might show as a complete whole, crowded with life. Life comes in; strikes through. Everything comes in if you are set in a pattern and always in one place. Changed circumstances bring quickly, but imperfectly, without a background, the things that would be discovered slowly and perfectly, on a background, in calm daily air. All lives are the same life. Only one discovery, coming to everybody.

The little bell on the wall burred gently. Room free. No hurry.

I’ll wait till he’s gone downstairs.

“Nice Miriam. You really are a dear, you know. You’ve a ruddy, blazing temper. You can sulk too, abominably. Then one discovers an unsuspected streak of sweetness. You forget. You have a rare talent for forgetfulness and recovery. You’re suddenly pillowy. You’ve no idea, Miriam, what a blessing that is to the creature called man. It’s womanly you are. Now don’t resent that. It’s a fine thing to be. It makes one want you, quite desperately. The essential deeps of you. Like an absolution. I’m admitting your deeps, Miriam.”

“It’s most inconvenient suddenly to be forgetting you are having a row with a person. It’s really a weakness. Suddenly getting interested.”

“Your real weakness is your lack of direction, the instability of your controls. If I had you on my hands for six months you’d be no end of a fine chap. Now don’t resent that. It’s a little crude, I admit. Perhaps I ought to beg your pardon. I beg your pardon, Miriam.”

“I never think about myself. I remember once being told that I was too excitable. It made me stare, for a few minutes. And now you. I believe it. But I shall forget again. And you are all wrong about ‘controls.’ I don’t mean mine. I mean your silly idea of women having feebler controls than men.”

“Not my idea. Tested fact.”

“Damn facts. Those arranged tests and their facts are utterly nothing at all. Women’s controls appear to be feebler because they have so much more to control. I don’t mean physically. Mentally. By seeing everything simultaneously. Unless they are the kind of woman who has been warped into seeing only one thing at a time. Scientifically. They are freaks. Women see in terms of life. Men in terms of things, because their lives are passed amongst scraps.” “Nice Miriam.”

“... Now we can begin to talk. It’s easier, you know, to talk hand in hand.”

The touch of his hand bringing a perfect separation. Everything suddenly darkened. Two little people side by side in a darkness. Exactly alike. Hypo gone. His charm, quite gone.

Alma crossing the end of the lawn. There was not any feeling of guilt. Only the sense of her isolation. Companionship with her isolation. Then the shock of his gay voice ringing out to her across the lawn.

“Susan, if you have that day in town, awful things will happen.” Her little pink-clad figure turning for a moment to wave a hand.

“Of course they will! Rather!”

“We’re licensed!”

“Susan doesn’t like me.”

“She does. She likes you no end. Likes you currently. The way your hair goes back over your ears.”

... He misses nothing. That is his charm, his supremacy in charm over all other men. And misinterprets everything. That is his tragedy. The secret of his perpetual disappointments. He spoiled everything by the perpetual shock of his deliberate guilt and deliberate daring. That was driving me off all the time. The extraordinariness of his idea of frankness! His ‘stark talk’ is nothing compared to the untroubled outspokenness of the Taylors....

The burden of his simplicity. No one in the world could be more simple.... He thought my silence meant attention and agreement, when I wanted only to watch the transformation going on all round me. That would have gone on; if he had given me time; not destroyed everything by his sudden trick of masterfulness; the silly application of a silly idea.... It’s not only that coercion is wrong; that it’s far better to die than to be coerced. It’s the destructiveness of coercion. How long before men discover that violence drives women utterly away into cold isolation. Never, since the beginning of the world has a woman been mastered. I’m glad I know why. Why violence defeats itself....

“You don’t desert me completely? We’re still friends? You’ll go on being interested in my work?”

He knew nothing of the life that went on of itself, afterwards. I had driven him away. I felt guilty then. Because I took my decision. And absolved myself. The huge sounding darkness, expanding, turned to a forest of moving green and gold. The feeling of immense deliberate strength going forward, breaking out through life.

If it came again I should absolve myself. But it won’t. It is something in him, and in his being an Englishman and not, like Michael, an alien mind.

“Alma. I want a slice of life!”

“Of course, my very dear! Take one, Miriam. Take a large one. An oat. Not a vote. One woman, one oat....” “I want an oat and a vote.... No. I don’t want a vote. I want to have one and not use it. Taking sides simply annihilates me.”

“Don’t be annihilated, old fing. Take an oat.”

“Give me one.”

“I will. I do!”

Alma’s revealed splendour ... lighting and warming the surrounding bleakness. In that moment her amazing gift that would move her so far from me seemed nothing. Herself, everything to me. Alma is a star. Her name should be Stella.... But I had already decided that it would not be him. And that marvellous beginning cannot come again.

“Particularly jolly schoolgirls! You’ll like them. They’re free. They mean to be free. Now they, Miriam, are the new woman.” Posing, exploiting, deliberately uncatlike cats. How could he be taken in? Why were all her poses revealed to me? What brought me on the scene just at those moments? Why that strange little series of events placing me, alone, of the whole large party, innocently there just at that moment, to see the origin of his idea of a jolly smile and how he answers it?

“You looked like a Silenus.”

“That sort of thing always looks foolish from the outside. It was nothing. I beg of you, I entreat you to think no more of it.” Again the little bell. Clean. A steady little summons. He had not gone downstairs.

He was washing his hands; with an air of communicativeness.

“I’ve a piece of news for you.... I have decided to leave Mr. Orly and set up, elsewhere, on my own account.”

“Really?” The beating of her heart shook the things she was holding in her hands.

“Yes. It’s a decision I’ve been approaching for some time. As you know, Mr. Leyton is about to be taken into partnership. I have come to the conclusion that it is best on the whole to move and develop my practice along my own lines.”

So calmly handing out desolation. Here was the counterpart of the glorious weeks. Her carelessly-made living was gone; or horribly reduced. The Orlys alone would not be able to give her a hundred a year.

“When is it to be?”

“Of course, whenever I go, I shall want help.”

“Oh ...”

He went very busily on with his handwashing. She knew exactly how he was smiling, and hidden in her corner smiled back, invisibly, and made unnecessary clatterings to hide the glorious embarrassment. Dismay struck across her joy, revealing the future as a grey, laborious working out of this moment’s blind satisfaction. But joy had spoken first and left her no choice. Startling her with the revelation of the way the roots of her being still centred in him. Joy deeper and more powerfully stirring than the joy of the past weeks. They showed now a spread embroidery of sunlit scenes, powerless, fundamentally irrelevant, excursions off the main road of her life. Committed beyond recall, she faced the prospect of unvarying, grinding experience. The truth hidden below the surfaces of life was to yield itself to her slowly, imperceptibly, unpleasurably.

She got through the necessary things at top speed, anyhow, to avoid underlining his need of her, and ran downstairs.

A letter on the hall table, from Hypo.... Dear Miriam—I’ve headed off that affair. You’ve pulled me out of it. You really have. When can I see you? Just to talk.

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