“It is tempting,” she repeated, “not to be mysterious.  I’ve wanted often to tell you, and then been afraid.  I could never tell any one else, certainly no woman, and I think you’re the one man who might understand and not be disgusted.”

“Are you lonely?” he whispered.  “Is it anything like that?”

“Yes.”  The train seemed to shake him towards her.  He was resolved that though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his arms.  “I’m terribly lonely, or I wouldn’t speak.  I think you must know already.”  Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging through them both.

“Perhaps I do.”  He came close to her.  “Perhaps I could speak instead.  But if you will say the word plainly you’ll never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life.”

She said plainly, “That I love him.”  Then she broke down.  Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino!  Gino!  Gino!

He heard himself remark “Rather!  I love him too!  When I can forget how he hurt me that evening.  Though whenever we shake hands—­” One of them must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart.

“You’ve upset me.”  She stifled something that was perilously near hysterics.  “I thought I was past all this.  You’re taking it wrongly.  I’m in love with Gino—­don’t pass it off—­I mean it crudely—­you know what I mean.  So laugh at me.”

“Laugh at love?” asked Philip.

“Yes.  Pull it to pieces.  Tell me I’m a fool or worse—­that he’s a cad.  Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him.  That’s the help I want.  I dare tell you this because I like you—­and because you’re without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don’t enter it; you only find it funny or beautiful.  So I can trust you to cure me.  Mr. Herriton, isn’t it funny?” She tried to laugh herself, but became frightened and had to stop.  “He’s not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way.  He’s never flattered me nor honoured me.  But because he’s handsome, that’s been enough.  The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty face.”  She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion.  “Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn’t it funny!” Then, to his relief, she began to cry.  “I love him, and I’m not ashamed of it.  I love him, and I’m going to Sawston, and if I mayn’t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die.”

In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her.  He did not lament.  He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it.  A flippant reply was what she asked and needed—­something flippant and a little cynical.  And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make.

“Perhaps it is what the books call ’a passing fancy’?”

She shook her head.  Even this question was too pathetic.  For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure.  “If I saw him often,” she said, “I might remember what he is like.  Or he might grow old.  But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now.”