“Oh, my dear—­I’d forgotten.” (Then she must have seen his face with its dead whiteness, for she added quickly, half laughing):  “Not you.  Only the time.  I’ve not been at the hospital, and I thought I had still half an hour.  I’ve had to run round like mad, and even now I’ve got a hundred things to do——­”

He gulped.  He said:  “Where are you going?” in a flat, emotionless voice, as though he did not care.

For a moment she did not answer.  She let the clothes drop, forgotten, on the sofa.  He could see her weighing—­considering what she should say to him.

“Italy—­Rome—­I expect——­”

“Italy—­when?”

“I’ve got to be at the hospital to-morrow.  Wednesday probably.  I don’t believe it’ll be for long.  I hope not.  A week or two.  I’ve got leave for a month.”

“Why are you going?”

And now he could not keep the harsh break out of his voice.  He could not hide the physical weakness which made it impossible for him to stand.  And yet, though she looked at him, she seemed unaware that he was suffering.  She was absorbed in some difficulty of her own, set on her own immediate purpose.  He knew that mood.  It was the other side of her fitful, whimsical way of life that she could be as relentless, as deadly resolute and patient in attainment as himself.

“It’s about Howard,” she said, abruptly coming to a decision.  “I wasn’t sure at first what to do about it.  I didn’t want anyone to know.  But you’re different.  We have to share things.  Howard and Gertie—­they’ve both gone—­gone off—­no one knows where.”

“Together?”

“I’m pretty certain of it.  At any rate, Gertie, who couldn’t even pay her rent, has vanished, and Howard—­I heard about Howard this morning.”

“What did you hear about him?”

“It was from Salter.  You probably don’t know him.  He came to me because he knew I was a friend of Howard’s.  He was frightfully upset.  It seems there was some sort of club which a crowd of students were collecting for, and he and Howard held the funds.  It wasn’t much—­150 pounds—­and Howard drew it out two days ago.”

“Does that astonish you?” Robert asked.

She seemed not to hear the scorn and irony of the question.  She went on packing deliberately, and he watched her, not knowing what he would say or do.  The tide was rising faster.  His dread would carry him off his feet.

“No.  I was sure things were coming to a crisis.”

“He was no good.  Anyone could see that.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Well, you see it now,” he flung at her with a hard triumph.

“I don’t.”

“A mean thief——­”

“Not mean, Robert.”

“I don’t know anything meaner than stealing money from a lot of hard-up students.”

“There was Gertie,” she said as though that were some sort of extenuation.

“Gertie—­they’ve gone off on some rotten spree—­not even married.”