He turns and kisses her.  But his lips, after that kiss, have the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have done what does not suit their mood.  He goes out.  She is left motionless by the armchair, her throat working.  Then, feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of paper, and writes.  Looking up suddenly she sees that Mrs. Miler has let herself in with her latchkey.

Mrs. Miler.  I’ve settled the baker, the milk, the washin’ an’ the groceries—­this ’ere’s what’s left.

She counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two shillings on to the little table.  Clare folds the letter into an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into her dress.

Clare. [Pointing to the money on the table] Take your wages; and give him this when he comes in.  I’m going away.

Mrs. Miler.  Without him?  When’ll you be comin’ back?

Clare. [Rising] I shan’t be coming back. [Gazing at Mrs. MILER’S hands, which are plaiting at her dress] I’m leaving Mr. Malise, and shan’t see him again.  And the suit against us will be withdrawn—­the divorce suit—­you understand?

Mrs. Miler. [Her face all broken up] I never meant to say anything to yer.

Clare.  It’s not you.  I can see for myself.  Don’t make it harder; help me.  Get a cab.

Mrs. Miler. [Disturbed to the heart] The porter’s outside, cleanin’ the landin’ winder.

Clare.  Tell him to come for my trunk.  It is packed. [She goes into the bedroom]

Mrs. Miler. [Opening the door-desolately] Come ’ere!

     [The Porter appears in shirt-sleeves at the door]

Mrs. Miler.  The lady wants a cab.  Wait and carry ’er trunk down.

     Clare comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat.

Mrs. Miler. [To the Porter] Now.

They go into the bedroom to get the trunk.  Clare picks up from the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the armchair very still, while Mrs. Miler and the Porter pass her with trunk and bag.  And even after the Porter has shouldered the trunk outside, and marched away, and Mrs. Miler has come back into the room, Clare still stands there.

Mrs. Miler. [Pointing to the typewriter] D’you want this ’ere, too?

Clare.  Yes.

     Mrs. Miler carries it out.  Then, from the doorway, gazing at
     Clare taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly.  At sound of
     that sob Clare throws up her head.

Clare.  Don’t!  It’s all right.  Good-bye!