Why had he written her that hammer-and-tongs answer? he demanded of
himself, not for the first time. Of course, it was true, but when one
is drowning, one does not want reams of truth, one wants a rope. He
had stood on the shore and lectured the girl, ordered her to strike out
and swim for it, and not be so criminally selfish as to drop into the
ocean; that was what he had done. And the girl--what had she done?
Heaven only knew. Probably gone under. It looked more so each day.
Why could he not have been gentler, even if she was undeveloped,
narrow, asleep? Because she was rich--he answered his own question to
himself--because he had no belief in rich people; only a hard distrust
of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of
smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same,
they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed
himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden
memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle
child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept
darkness, of roses bobbing.

McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted
the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve.
He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged
again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly,
he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from
the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector
and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust
the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and
turned to meet his guests.

When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting