"It was I who did not let him know."
"What's Greece like?"
He told her. She was as bored as her brother would have been, and had not his gift of listening beneath words. Clive remembered how often he had held forth to Maurice and felt at the end an access of intimacy. There was a good deal to be saved out of the wreck of that passion. Maurice was big, and so sensible when once he understood.
Kitty proceeded, sketching her own affairs in a slightly clever way. She had asked to go to an Institute to acquire Domestic Economy, and her mother would have allowed her, but Maurice had put his foot down when he heard that the fees were three guineas a week. Kitty's grievances were mainly financial: she wanted an allowance. Ada had one. Ada, as heiress-apparent, had to "learn the value of money. But I am not to learn anything." Clive decided that he would tell his friend to treat the girl better; once before he had interfered, and Maurice, charming to the core, had made him feel he could say anything.
A deep voice interrupted them; the churchgoers were back. Ada came in, dressed in a jersey, tam o'shanter, and gray skirt; the autumn mist had left a delicate bloom upon her hair. Her
cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright; she greeted him with obvious pleasure, and though her exclamations were the same as Kitty's they produced a different effect. "Why didn't you let us know?" she cried. "There will be nothing but the pie. We would have given you a real English dinner."
He said he must return to town in a few minutes but Mrs Hall insisted he should sleep. He was glad to do this. The house now filled with tender memories, especially when Ada spoke. He had forgotten she was so different from Kitty.
"I thought you were Maurice," he said to her. "Your voices are wonderfully alike."
"It's because I have a cold," she said, laughing.
"No, they are alike," said Mrs Hall. "Ada has Maurice's voice, his nose, by which of course I mean the mouth too, and his good spirits and good health. Three things, I often think of it. Kitty on the other hand has his brain."
All laughed. The three women were evidently fond of one another. Clive saw relations that he had not guessed, for they were expanding in the absence of their man. Plants live by the sun, yet a few of them flower at night-fall, and the Halls reminded him of the evening primroses that starred a deserted alley at Penge. When talking to her mother and sister, even Kitty had beauty, and he determined to rebuke Maurice about her; not unkindly, for Maurice was beautiful too, and bulked largely in this new vision.
The girls had been incited by Dr Barry to join an ambulance class, and after dinner Clive submitted his body to be bound. Ada tied up his scalp, Kitty his ankle, while Mrs Hall, happy and careless, repeated "Well, Mr Durham, this is a better illness than the last anyhow."
"Mrs Hall, I wish you would call me by my Christian name."
"Indeed I will. But Ada and Kitty—not you."
"I wish Ada and Kitty would too."
"Clive, then!" said Kitty.
"Kitty, then!"
"Clive."
"Ada—that's better." But he was blushing. "I hate formalities."
"So do I," came the chorus. "I care nothing for anyone's opinion—never did," and fixed him with candid eyes.
"Maurice on the other hand," from Mrs Hall, "is very particular."
"Maurice is a rip really—Waow, you're hurting my head."
"Waow, waow," Ada imitated.
There was a ring at the telephone.
"He has had your wire from the office," announced Kitty. "He wants to know whether you're here."
"Say I am."
"He's coming back tonight, then. Now he wants to talk to you."
Clive took the receiver, but only a burr arrived. They had been disconnected. They could not ring Maurice up as they did not know where he was, and Clive felt relieved, for the approach of reality alarmed him. He was so happy being bandaged: his friend would arrive soon enough. Now Ada bent over him. He saw features that he knew, with a light behind that glorified them. He turned from the dark hair and eyes to the unshadowed mouth or to the curves of the body, and found in her the exact need of his transition. He had seen more seductive women, but none that promised such peace. She was the compromise between memory and desire, she was the quiet evening that Greece had never known. No argument touched her, because she was tenderness, who reconciles present with past. He had not supposed there was such a creature except in Heaven, and he did not believe in Heaven. Now much had become possible suddenly. He lay looking into her eyes, where some of his hope lay reflected. He knew that he might make her love him, and the
knowledge lit him with temperate fire. It was charming—he desired no more yet, and his only anxiety was lest Maurice should arrive, for a memory should remain a memory. Whenever the others ran out of the room to see whether that noise was the car, he kept her with him, and soon she understood that he wished this, and stopped without his command.
"If you knew what it is to be in England!" he said suddenly.
"Is Greece not nice?"
"Horrible."
She was distressed and Clive also sighed. Their eyes met.
"I'm so sorry, Clive."
"Oh, it's all over."
"What exactly was it—"
"Ada, it was this. While in Greece I had to reconstruct my life from the bottom. Not an easy task, but I think I've done it."
"We often talked of you. Maurice said you would like Greece."
"Maurice doesn't know—no one knows as much as you! I've told you more than anyone. Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course."
Clive was nonplussed. The conversation had become impossible. But Ada never expected continuity. To be alone with Clive, whom she
