“And it’s because of them,” said Evelyn, “that I’m going to help the other women.  You’ve heard about me, I suppose?  They weren’t married, you see; I’m not anybody in particular.  I’m not a bit ashamed of it.  They loved each other anyhow, and that’s more than most people can say of their parents.”

Rachel sat down on the bed, with the two pictures in her hands, and compared them—­the man and the woman who had, so Evelyn said, loved each other.  That fact interested her more than the campaign on behalf of unfortunate women which Evelyn was once more beginning to describe.  She looked again from one to the other.

“What d’you think it’s like,” she asked, as Evelyn paused for a minute, “being in love?”

“Have you never been in love?” Evelyn asked.  “Oh no—­one’s only got to look at you to see that,” she added.  She considered.  “I really was in love once,” she said.  She fell into reflection, her eyes losing their bright vitality and approaching something like an expression of tenderness.  “It was heavenly!—­while it lasted.  The worst of it is it don’t last, not with me.  That’s the bother.”

She went on to consider the difficulty with Alfred and Sinclair about which she had pretended to ask Rachel’s advice.  But she did not want advice; she wanted intimacy.  When she looked at Rachel, who was still looking at the photographs on the bed, she could not help seeing that Rachel was not thinking about her.  What was she thinking about, then?  Evelyn was tormented by the little spark of life in her which was always trying to work through to other people, and was always being rebuffed.  Falling silent she looked at her visitor, her shoes, her stockings, the combs in her hair, all the details of her dress in short, as though by seizing every detail she might get closer to the life within.

Rachel at last put down the photographs, walked to the window and remarked, “It’s odd.  People talk as much about love as they do about religion.”

“I wish you’d sit down and talk,” said Evelyn impatiently.

Instead Rachel opened the window, which was made in two long panes, and looked down into the garden below.

“That’s where we got lost the first night,” she said.  “It must have been in those bushes.”

“They kill hens down there,” said Evelyn.  “They cut their heads off with a knife—­disgusting!  But tell me—­what—­”

“I’d like to explore the hotel,” Rachel interrupted.  She drew her head in and looked at Evelyn, who still sat on the floor.

“It’s just like other hotels,” said Evelyn.

That might be, although every room and passage and chair in the place had a character of its own in Rachel’s eyes; but she could not bring herself to stay in one place any longer.  She moved slowly towards the door.

“What is it you want?” said Evelyn.  “You make me feel as if you were always thinking of something you don’t say. . . .  Do say it!”