“I have got your shoe here.”  She made no sound and I continued:  “You had better give me your foot and I will put it on for you.”

She made no movement.  I bent low down and groped for her foot under the flounces of the wrapper.  She did not withdraw it and I put on the shoe, buttoning the instep-strap.  It was an inanimate foot.  I lowered it gently to the floor.

“If you buttoned the strap you would not be losing your shoe, Miss Don’t Care,” I said, trying to be playful without conviction.  I felt more like wailing over the lost illusion of vague desire, over the sudden conviction that I would never find again near her the strange, half-evil, half-tender sensation which had given its acrid flavour to so many days, which had made her appear tragic and promising, pitiful and provoking.  That was all over.

“Your father picked it up,” I said, thinking she may just as well be told of the fact.

“I am not afraid of papa—­by himself,” she declared scornfully.

“Oh!  It’s only in conjunction with his disreputable associates, strangers, the ‘riff-raff of Europe’ as your charming aunt or great-aunt says—­men like me, for instance—­that you—­”

“I am not afraid of you,” she snapped out.

“That’s because you don’t know that I am now doing business with your father.  Yes, I am in fact doing exactly what he wants me to do.  I’ve broken my promise to you.  That’s the sort of man I am.  And now—­aren’t you afraid?  If you believe what that dear, kind, truthful old lady says you ought to be.”

It was with unexpected modulated softness that the affirmed: 

“No.  I am not afraid.”  She hesitated. . . .  “Not now.”

“Quite right.  You needn’t be.  I shall not see you again before I go to sea.”  I rose and stood near her chair.  “But I shall often think of you in this old garden, passing under the trees over there, walking between these gorgeous flower-beds.  You must love this garden—­”

“I love nothing.”

I heard in her sullen tone the faint echo of that resentfully tragic note which I had found once so provoking.  But it left me unmoved except for a sudden and weary conviction of the emptiness of all things under Heaven.

“Good-bye, Alice,” I said.

She did not answer, she did not move.  To merely take her hand, shake it, and go away seemed impossible, almost improper.  I stooped without haste and pressed my lips to her smooth forehead.  This was the moment when I realised clearly with a sort of terror my complete detachment from that unfortunate creature.  And as I lingered in that cruel self-knowledge I felt the light touch of her arms falling languidly on my neck and received a hasty, awkward, haphazard kiss which missed my lips.  No!  She was not afraid; but I was no longer moved.  Her arms slipped off my neck slowly, she made no sound, the deep wicker arm-chair creaked slightly; only a sense of my dignity prevented me fleeing headlong from that catastrophic revelation.