if a wraith were plucking itself out of her towards him. She felt his absence from her as a great tearing force moving out of her entire flesh. And she shivered with a dazzled joy. Had she, then, not been in love with Willy? No, she had not been in love with Willy. She had loved Willy with her careful anxious mind and with her fretful fingertips. She had not thus adored him with her whole thought-body, her whole being of yearning. She had not been content to be for him simply herself and a woman. This was the old, the unmistakable state of being in love which she had imagined she would never experience again. Indeed as she lay pinned to the ground, looking up at the blotched sunlight moving upon the lined form of the acacia tree, she felt that she had never experienced it before. And she turned over groaning on to her face. Great love is inseparable from joy, but further thought brought to her an equal portion of pain. There was absolutely nothing that she could do with this huge emotion which she had so suddenly discovered in herself. It was not only that Ducane belonged to Kate. He was a man utterly inaccessible to herself. He had been very kind to her, but that was simply because he was a good man who was kind to everybody. His attention to her had been professional, efficient and entirely momentaryi She was far too plain an object to remain visible to him. On the whole he was used to her as one might be used to an efficient servant. Of course he must never know. How long would it take her to recover? At the thought that she had known of her condi: for twenty minutes and was already wondering about her recovery, tears brimmed over Mary's closed eyes and mingled with the sweat on her shining face and dripped down into the warm grass. No, she would not think of recovery. Indeed she felt that she would never recover. She would live with her condition. And he must never know. She must make no move, utter no breath, lift no finger. Nevertheless in two days' time, after two days of pure agony, she felt that she had to see him. She would see him briefly, utter some commonplaces, and be gone. But she felt that she had to see him or she would die. She had to make a journey towards him. Sick with emotion, she travelled to London, telephoned him, and asked if she could call upon him briefly before dinner. She sat in his presence in an ecstasy of pain and prayer. Her intense joy at being in his presence flickered through the matrix of her dullness, her stupidity, her inability to say anything which was not tedious. Oh John! she cried within herself as if for help. Oh my darling, help me to endure it! John Ducane leaned on the back of the chair and contem plate&Mary's small round head, compact as an image out of Ingres, her pale golden complexion, the very small ears behind which she had tucked her straight dark hair. John Ducane thought to himself, why have I landed myself in this absurd and terrible position? Why have I been such a perfectly frightful ass? Why have I so infelicitously, inopportunely, improperly and undeniably fallen quite madly in love with my old friend, Mary Clothier? It seemed now to Ducane that his thoughts had been already for a long time, turning to Mary, running to her instinctively like animals, like children. The moment had been important when he had thought about her, we are under the same orders. But he had known, long before he had formulated it clearly, that she was like him, morally like in some way that was. portant. Her mode of being gave him a moral, even a meta. physical confidence in the world, in the reality of goodness. No love is entirely without worth, even when the frivolous calls to the frivolous and the base to the base. But it is in the nature of love to discern good, and the best love is in some part of at any rate a love of what is good. Ducane was very conscious, and had always been conscious, that he and Mary communicated by means of what was good in both of them. Ducane's absolute respect for Mary, his trust in her, his. prehension in her virtues which he understood, made the back. ground of an affection which grew, under the complex force of his needs, into love. It is possible that at this time he idolized her, and fell in love at the moment at which he thought, she is better than me. During his gradual loss of a stiff respect he had had for himself, he had felt the need to locate in someone else the picture of an upright person. His relation with Jessica, his relation even with Kate, perhaps in a subtle way even more his relation with Kate, had left him muddled. He was a man who, unless he could think well of himself, became confused and weak of will. He had begun to need Mary when he had begun to need a better image of himself. She was the consoling counterpart of his self-abasement. Also she was of course, he realized, a mother goddess. She was the mother of Trescombe. In this light he was able to see something almost mysterious in the plainness of her role. She had already been transfigured for him by his jealousy of Willy, a jealousy which had surprised him, appearing first as an unexplained depression, a blank want of generosity. This was a jealousy very different from the jealousy of Octavian which he had momently felt at the withdrawal of Kate. Jealousy of Octavian had awakened him to a sense of his own position as improper and idiotic. Jealousy of Willy had made him feel, I want a girl of my own. And then, I want this girl of my own. It seemed to him now, and this added to his pain, that he had only urged her to marry Willy out of guilt and fear at his own failure with Willy. Of course she must never know how he felt and Willy must never know. Once they were married he would avoid them absolutely. I am out of the saga, he thought. He had a heavy sense of being left in total isolation; everyone had withdrawn from him and the person who could most have helped him was pre-empted by another. He stared at Mary. His whole body ached with his sense of how much she might have done for him. To cause himself a sharp sobering pain he said, 'How is Willy?' 'Oh, very well I believe. I mean, much as usual.' 'When are you getting married?' said Ducane. Mary put her glass down on the octagonal marble table. She flushed and snapped in a breath. 'But I'm not getting married to Willy.' Ducane came round the armchair and sat down in it. 'You said it wasn't quite fixed ' 'It's not happening at all. Willy doesn't want to marry. It was all a mistake.' She looked very unhappy. 'I'm sorry – 'said Ducane. 'I thought Kate would have told you,' said Mary. She was still red, looking hard at her glass. 'No,' said Ducane. He thought, I suppose I'd better tell her. 'Kate and I – well, I don't think we'll be seeing quite so much of each other – at least not like ' 'Did you really quarrel then?' Mary asked in a slightly breathless voice. 'Not really. But – I'd better tell you, Mary, though you won't think well of me. I was formerly entangled, well in a way was entangled, with a girl in London and Kate found this out, and felt I'd been lying and I suppose I had. It was rather complicated, I'm afraid. Anyway it somehow spoilt things. It was foolish of me to imagine that I could – manage Kate.' This isn't the way to say it, he thought. It makes it sound dreadful. She'll think badly of me for ever. 'I see. A girl in – I see.' He said rather stiffly, 'You must be sad about Willy. I'm sorry.' 'Yes. He sort of turned me down!' around her feet. 'Well, I hope you'll be happy, John, happy with – Yes.' 'Don't go, Mary.' 'I have got an appointment.' He groaned to himself. He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to be utterly revealed to her, he wanted her to understand. 'Let me give you something before you go, something to take away with you.' He looked wildly round the room. A French glass paper-weight was lying on the desk on top of some papers. He picked it up and quickly threw it into Mary's lap. The next moment he saw that she had burst into tears. 'What is it, my heart?' Ducane knelt beside her, thrusting the table away. He touched her knee. Holding the paper-weight tightly in her skirt and blowing her nose Mary said, 'John, you'll think I'm crazy and you're not to worry. There's something I've got to tell you. I can't go away out of that door without telling you. I wasn't really in love with Willy. I loved Willy dearly, I love him dearly, but it's not being in love. One knows what being in love is like and it is a very terrible thing. I shouldn't tell you this, you've got this girl, and you've been so awfully kind to me and I oughtn't to trouble you and I meant to say nothing about it, I really did, and if you hadn't – ' 'Mary, what on earth are you talking about?'
