There was silence. “Then you have not only ruined my life. You have taken pleasure in doing so.”

“I knew nothing but unhappiness could come from such a meeting as this.”

“I think you lie. I think you reveled in the thought of my misery. And I think it was you who sent that letter to my solicitor.” She looked him a sharp denial, but he met her with a cold grimace. “You forget I already know, to my cost, what an accomplished actress you can be when it suits your purpose. I can guess why I am now summoned to be given the coup de grace. You have a new victim. I may slake your insatiable and unwomanly hatred of my sex one last time… and now I may be dismissed.”

“You misjudge me.”

But she said it far too calmly, as if she remained proof to all his accusations; even, deep in herself, perversely savored them. He gave a bitter shake of the head.

“No. It is as I say. You have not only planted the dagger in my breast, you have delighted in twisting it.” She stood now staring at him, as if against her will, but hypnotized, the defiant criminal awaiting sentence. He pronounced it. “A day will come when you shall be called to account for what you have done to me. And if there is justice in heaven—your punishment shall outlast eternity.”

Melodramatic words; yet words sometimes matter less than the depth of feeling behind them—and these came out of Charles’s whole being and despair. What cried out behind them was not melodrama, but tragedy. For a long moment she continued to stare at him; something of the terrible outrage in his soul was reflected in her eyes. With an acute abruptness she lowered her head.

He hesitated one last second; his face was like the poised-crumbling wall of a dam, so vast was the weight of anathema pressing to roar down. But as suddenly as she had looked guilty, he ground his jaws shut, turned on his heel and marched towards the door.

Gathering her skirt in one hand, she ran after him. He spun round at the sound, she stood lost a moment. But before he could move on she had stepped swiftly past him to the door. He found his exit blocked.

“I cannot let you go believing that.”

Her breast rose, as if she were out of breath; her eyes on his, as if she put all reliance on stopping him in their directness. But when he made an angry gesture of his hand, she spoke.

“There is a lady in this house who knows me, who understands me better than anyone else in the world. She wishes to see you. I beg you to let her do so. She will explain… my real nature far better than I can myself. She will explain that my conduct towards you is less blameworthy than you suppose.”

His eyes blazed upon hers; as if he would now let that dam break. He made a visibly difficult effort to control himself; to lose the flames, regain the ice; and succeeded.

“I am astounded that you should think a stranger to me could extenuate your behavior. And now—”

“She is waiting. She knows you are here.”

“I do not care if it is the Queen herself. I will not see her.”

“I shall not be present.”

Her cheeks had grown very red, almost as red as Charles’s. For the first—and last—time in his life he was tempted to use physical force on a member of the weaker sex.

“Stand aside!”

But she shook her head. It was beyond words now; a matter of will. Her demeanor was intense, almost tragic; and yet something strange haunted her eyes—something had happened, some dim air from another world was blowing imperceptibly between them. She watched him as if she knew she had set him at bay; a little frightened, uncertain what he would do; and yet without hostility. Almost as if, behind the surface, there was nothing but a curiosity: a watching for the result of an experiment. Something in Charles faltered. His eyes fell. Behind all his rage stood the knowledge that he loved her still; that this was the one being whose loss he could never forget. He spoke to the gilt clasp.

“What am I to understand by this?”

“What a less honorable gentleman might have guessed some time ago.”

He ransacked her eyes. Was there the faintest smile in them? No, there could not be. There was not. She held him in those inscrutable eyes a moment more, than left the door and crossed the room to a bellpull by the fireplace. He was free to go; but he watched her without moving. “What a less honorable gentleman…” What new enormity was threatened now! Another woman, who knew and understood her better than… that hatred of man… this house inhabited by… he dared not say it to himself. She drew back the brass button and then came towards him again.

“She will come at once.” Sarah opened the door; gave him an oblique look. “I beg you to listen to what she has to say… and to accord her the respect due to her situation and age.”

And she was gone. But she had, in those last words, left an essential clue. He divined at once whom he was about to meet. It was her employer’s sister, the poetess (I will hide names no more) Miss Christina Rossetti. Of course! Had he not always found in her verse, on the rare occasions he had looked at it, a certain incomprehensible mysticism? A passionate obscurity, the sense of a mind too inward and femininely involute; to be frank, rather absurdly muddled over the frontiers of human and divine love?

He strode to the door and opened it. Sarah was at a door at the far end of the landing, about to enter. She looked round and he opened his mouth to speak. But there was a quiet sound below. Someone was mounting the stairs. Sarah raised a finger to her lips and disappeared inside the room.

Charles hesitated, then went back inside the studio and walked to the window. He saw now who was to blame for Sarah’s philosophy of life—she whom Punch had once called the sobbing abbess, the hysterical spinster of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. How desperately he wished he had not returned! If only he had made further inquiries before casting himself into this miserable situation! But here he was; and he suddenly found himself determining, and not without a grim relish, that the lady poetess should not have it all her own way. To her he might be no more than a grain of sand among countless millions, a mere dull weed in this exotic garden of…

There was a sound. He turned, and with a very set-cold face. But it was not Miss Rossetti, merely the girl who had shown him up, and holding a small child crooked in her arm. It seemed she had seen the door ajar, and simply peeped in on her way to some nursery. She appeared surprised to see him alone.

“Mrs. Roughwood has left?”

“She gave me to understand… a lady wishes to have a few words in private with me. She is rung for.”

The girl inclined her head. “I see.”

But instead of withdrawing, as Charles had expected, she came forward into the room and set the child down on a carpet by the easel. She felt in the pocket of her apron and handed down a rag doll, then knelt a brief moment, as if to make sure the child was perfectly happy. Then without warning she straightened and moved gracefully towards the door. Charles stood meanwhile with an expression somewhere between offense and puzzlement.

“I trust the lady will come very shortly?”

The girl turned. She had a small smile on her lips. Then she glanced down at the child on the carpet.

“She is come.”

For at least ten seconds after the door closed Charles stared. It was a little girl, with dark hair and chubby arms; a little more than a baby, yet far less than a child. She seemed suddenly to realize that Charles was animate. The doll was handed up towards him, with ameaningless sound. He had an impression of solemn gray irises in a regular face, a certain timid doubt, a not being quite sure what he was… a second later he was kneeling in front of her on the carpet, helping her to stand on her uncertain legs, scanning that small face like some archaeologist who has just unearthed the first example of a lost ancient script. The little girl showed unmistakable signs of not liking this scrutiny. Perhaps he gripped the fragile arms too tightly. He fumbled hastily for his watch, as he had once before in a similar predicament. It had the same good effect; and in a few moments he was able to lift the infant without protest and carry her to a chair by the window. She sat on his knees, intent on the silver toy; and he, he was intent on her face, her hands, her every inch.