I see myself, a dark, ill-dressed youth, with the bruise Lord Redcar gave me still blue and yellow beneath my jaw; and young Verrall sits cornerwise to me, better grown, better dressed, fair and quiet, two years my senior indeed, but looking no older than I because of his light complexion; and opposite me is Nettie, with dark eyes upon my face, graver and more beautiful than I had ever seen her in the former time.  Her dress is still that white one she had worn when I came upon her in the park, and still about her dainty neck she wears her string of pearls and that little coin of gold.  She is so much the same, she is so changed; a girl then and now a woman—­and all my agony and all the marvel of the Change between!  Over the end of the green table about which we sit, a spotless cloth is spread, it bears a pleasant lunch spread out with a simple equipage.  Behind me is the liberal sunshine of the green and various garden.  I see it all.  Again I sit there, eating awkwardly, this paper lies upon the table and Verrall talks of the Change.

“You can’t imagine,” he says in his sure, fine accents, “how much the Change has destroyed of me.  I still don’t feel awake.  Men of my sort are so tremendously made; I never suspected it before.”

He leans over the table toward me with an evident desire to make himself perfectly understood.  “I find myself like some creature that is taken out of its shell—­soft and new.  I was trained to dress in a certain way, to behave in a certain way, to think in a certain way; I see now it’s all wrong and narrow—­most of it anyhow—­a system of class shibboleths.  We were decent to each other in order to be a gang to the rest of the world.  Gentlemen indeed!  But it’s perplexing------”

I can hear his voice saying that now, and see the lift of his eyebrows and his pleasant smile.

He paused.  He had wanted to say that, but it was not the thing we had to say.

I leant forward a little and took hold of my glass very tightly.  “You two,” I said, “will marry?”

They looked at one another.

Nettie spoke very softly.  “I did not mean to marry when I came away,” she said.

“I know,” I answered.  I looked up with a sense of effort and met Verrall’s eyes.

He answered me.  “I think we two have joined our lives. . . .  But the thing that took us was a sort of madness.”

I nodded.  “All passion,” I said, “is madness.”  Then I fell into a doubting of those words.

“Why did we do these things?” he said, turning to her suddenly.

Her hands were clasped under her chin, her eyes downcast.

“We had to,” she said, with her old trick of inadequate expression.

Then she seemed to open out suddenly.

“Willie,” she cried with a sudden directness, with her eyes appealing to me, “I didn’t mean to treat you badly—­indeed I didn’t.  I kept thinking of you—­and of father and mother, all the time.  Only it didn’t seem to move me.  It didn’t move me not one bit from the way I had chosen.”