“It’s not that.  Robert knows it isn’t, but he doesn’t care any more.  He’ll say anything.  But I know.  I’ve guessed it a long time.  People have found out.  They say to one another, when I send in my papers, ’This man is a liar.  Every morning of his life he gives his assent to lies.  And now he is going to teach the very lies he pretends to exterminate.  We can’t have anything to do with a man like that.’  And there’s a conspiracy, Miss Christine, a conspiracy——­” His voice began to rise and tremble.  “They’ve taken me off my old classes under the pretext that they are too much for me.  They’ve set me on to Scripture.  Then they told me I had to remember—­remember circumstances—­to prevent myself from saying what I thought of such devilish cruelty.  But I saw that they wanted me to break out so that they could get rid of me altogether, and I held my tongue.  One of these days, though, I shall stand up in the open places and tell the truth.  I shall say what they have done to me——­”

He had forgotten, if he had ever fully realized, that there were strangers about him.  He shook his fist and shouted, whilst the slow, hopeless tears rolled down the sunken yellow cheeks onto the dirty manuscript.

They stared at him in consternation, all but Francey, who uncurled herself negligently and slid from the sofa.

“It’s past my tea-time,” she announced, “and I want my tea.”

It was as though she had neither seen nor cared.  Christine turned her faded, groping eyes thankfully in her direction.

“Of course, my dear.  Robert—­please——­”

“No,” he said; “we don’t have tea, Francey.”

“But, Robert, at least when we have guests——­”

“Or guests,” he added, with a set, white face.

Cosgrave laughed.  He made a comic grimace.  He seemed utterly irrepressible and irresponsible, like a colt let out for the first time in a wide field.

“You don’t know this fellow like I do, Miss Wilmot.  A nasty Spartan.  But if you’ll put a shilling in the gas meter we’ll get cakes and a quarter of tea.  He doesn’t need to have any if he doesn’t want it, but he can’t grudge us a corner of table and half a chair each.  Miss Christine’s on our side, aren’t you, Miss Christine?  And oh, Connie, there’s a pastrycook’s round the corner where they make jam-puffs like they did when I was a kid——­”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Francey said, nodding to him.

She passed close to Robert.  She even gave him a quick, friendly touch.  He could almost hear her say, “Tag, Robert!” but he would not look at her.  And yet the moment after he knew that it was all make-believe.  His anger was a sham, protecting something that was fragile and afraid of pain.  Now that she had gone out of the barren little room she had taken with her the sense of a secret, gracious intimacy which had been its warmth and colour.  He saw that the sunlight had shrunk to a pale gold finger whose tip rested lingeringly on the windowsill, and he felt tired and cold and work-soiled.