A spasm of fierce jealousy shot through me—­jealousy of Mary, my friend Mary, who knew him with such profound intimacy that they could go through a scene together which was ‘humiliating.’  I saw that my own intimacy with him was still crude with the crudity of newness, and that only years could mellow it.  Mary, the good, sentimental Mary, had wasted the years of their marriage—­had never understood the value of the treasure in her keeping.  Why had they always been sad in their house?  What was the origin of that resigned and even cheerful gloom which had pervaded their domestic life, and which I had remarked on my first visit to Bloomsbury Square?  Were these, too, mysteries that I must not ask my lover to reveal?  Resentment filled me.  I came near to hating Mary, not because she had made him unhappy—­oh no!—­but because she had had the priority in his regard, and because there was nothing about him, however secret and recondite, that I could be absolutely sure of the sole knowledge of.  She had been in the depths with him.  I desired fervently that I also might descend with him, and even deeper.  Oh, that I might have the joy and privilege of humiliation with him!

‘I shall ask you nothing, dearest,’ I murmured.

I had risen from my seat and gone to him, and was lightly touching his hair with my fingers.  He did not move, but sat staring into the fire.  Somehow, I adored him because he made no response to the fondling of my hand.  His strange acceptance of the caress as a matter of course gave me the illusion that I was his wife, and that the years had mellowed our intimacy.

‘Carlotta!’

He spoke my name slowly and distinctly, savouring it.

‘Yes,’ I answered softly and obediently.

’Carlotta!  Listen!  Our two lives are in our hands at this moment—­this moment while we talk here.’

His rapt eyes had not stirred from the fire.

‘I feel it,’ I said.

‘What are we to do?  What shall we decide to do?’

He slowly turned towards me.  I lowered my glance.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Yes, you do, Carlotta,’ he insisted.  ‘You do know.’

His voice trembled.

‘Mary and I are such good friends,’ I said.  ’That is what makes it so—­’

‘No, no, no!’ he objected loudly.  His nervousness had suddenly increased.  ’Don’t, for God’s sake, begin to argue in that way!  You are above feminine logic.  Mary is your friend.  Good.  You respect her; she respects you.  Good.  Is that any reason why our lives should be ruined?  Will that benefit Mary?  Do I not tell you that everything has ceased between us?’

‘The idea of being false to Mary—­’

’There’s no question of being false.  And if there was, would you be false to love rather than to friendship?  Between you and me there is love; between Mary and me there is not love.  It isn’t her fault, nor mine, least of all yours.  It is the fault of the secret essence of existence.  Have you not yourself written that the only sacred thing is instinct?  Are we, or are we not, to be true to ourselves?’