Looking at it now I can see that the days which followed Audrey'sarrival at Sanstead marked the true beginning of our acquaintanceship.

　　Before, during our engagement, we had been strangers, artificiallytied together, and she had struggled against the chain. But now,for the first time, we were beginning to know each other, and werediscovering that, after all, we had much in common.

　　It did not alarm me, this growing feeling of comradeship. Keenlyon the alert as I was for the least sign that would show that Iwas in danger of weakening in my loyalty to Cynthia, I did notdetect one in my friendliness for Audrey. On the contrary, I washugely relieved, for it seemed to me that the danger was past. Ihad not imagined it possible that I could ever experience towardsher such a tranquil emotion as this easy friendliness. For thelast five years my imagination had been playing round her memory,until I suppose I had built up in my mind some almost superhumanimage, some goddess. What I was passing through now, of course,though I was unaware of it, was the natural reaction from thatstate of mind. Instead of the goddess, I had found a companionablehuman being, and I imagined that I had effected the change myself,and by sheer force of will brought Audrey into a reasonablerelation to the scheme of things.

　　I suppose a not too intelligent moth has much the same views withregard to the lamp. His last thought, as he enters the flame, isprobably one of self-congratulation that he has arranged hisdealings with it on such a satisfactory commonsense basis.

　　And then, when I was feeling particularly safe and complacent,disaster came.

　　The day was Wednesday, and my 'afternoon off', but the rain wasdriving against the windows, and the attractions of billiards withthe marker at the 'Feathers' had not proved sufficient to make meface the two-mile walk in the storm. I had settled myself in thestudy. There was a noble fire burning in the grate, and thedarkness lit by the glow of the coals, the dripping of the rain,the good behaviour of my pipe, and the reflection that, as I satthere, Glossop was engaged downstairs in wrestling with my class,combined to steep me in a meditative peace. Audrey was playing thepiano in the drawing-room. The sound came to me faintly throughthe closed doors. I recognized what she was playing. I wondered ifthe melody had the same associations for her that it had for me.

　　The music stopped. I heard the drawing-room door open. She cameinto the study.

　　'I didn't know there was anyone here,' she said. 'I'm frozen. Thedrawing-room fire's out.'

　　'Come and sit down,' I said. 'You don't mind the smoke?'

　　I drew a chair up to the fire for her, feeling, as I did so, acertain pride. Here I was, alone with her in the firelight, and mypulse was regular and my brain cool. I had a momentary vision ofmyself as the Strong Man, the strong, quiet man with the iron gripon his emotions. I was pleased with myself.

　　She sat for some minutes, gazing into the fire. Little spurts offlame whistled comfortably in the heart of the black-red coals.

　　Outside the storm shrieked faintly, and flurries of rain dashedthemselves against the window.

　　'It's very nice in here,' she said at last.

　　'Peaceful.'

　　I filled my pipe and re-lit it. Her eyes, seen for an instant inthe light of the match, looked dreamy.

　　'I've been sitting here listening to you,' I said. 'I liked thatlast thing you played.'

　　'You always did.'

　　'You remember that? Do you remember one evening--no, youwouldn't.'

　　'Which evening?'

　　'Oh, you wouldn't remember. It's only one particular evening whenyou played that thing. It sticks in my mind. It was at yourfather's studio.'

　　She looked up quickly.

　　'We went out afterwards and sat in the park.'

　　I sat up thrilled.

　　'A man came by with a dog,' I said.

　　'Two dogs.'

　　'One surely!'

　　'Two. A bull-dog and a fox-terrier.'

　　'I remember the bull-dog, but--by Jove, you're right. A fox-terrierwith a black patch over his left eye.'

　　'Right eye.'

　　'Right eye. They came up to us, and you--'

　　'Gave them chocolates.'

　　I sank back slowly in my chair.

　　'You've got a wonderful memory,' I said.

　　She bent over the fire without speaking. The rain rattled on thewindow.

　　'So you still like my playing, Peter?'

　　'I like it better than ever; there's something in it now that Idon't believe there used to be. I can't describe it--something--'

　　'I think it's knowledge, Peter,' she said quietly. 'Experience.

　　I'm five years older than I was when I used to play to you before,and I've seen a good deal in those five years. It may not bealtogether pleasant seeing life, but--well, it makes you play thepiano better. Experience goes in at the heart and comes out at thefinger-tips.'

　　It seemed to me that she spoke a little bitterly.

　　'Have you had a bad time, Audrey, these last years?' I said.

　　'Pretty bad.'

　　'I'm sorry.'

　　'I'm not--altogether. I've learned a lot.'

　　She was silent again, her eyes fixed on the f............