She turned round.  She seemed almost passionately surprised.

“Perhaps—­in a way—­I wished to think that.”

“Why?  Did you wish to despise me?”

“Rosamund!  As if I could ever do that.”

“If you did a despicable thing I should despise you.”

“Don’t!  I haven’t much more time here.”

“I never, never shall be able to understand how you could do this without telling me beforehand that you were going to do it.”

“It wasn’t from any want of respect or love for you.”

“I can’t talk about it any more just now.”

The flush on her face deepened.  She turned and went out of the room.

Dion was painfully affected.  He had never before had a serious disagreement with Rosamund.  It was almost intolerable to have one now on the eve of departure from her.  He felt like one who had committed an outrage out of the depths of a terrible hunger, a hunger of curiosity.  He knew now why he had volunteered for active service without consulting Rosamund.  Obscurely his nature had spoken, saying, “Put her to the test and make the test drastic.”  And he had obeyed the command.  He had wanted to know, to find out suddenly, in a moment, the exact truth of years.  And now he had roused a passion of anger in Rosamund.

Her anger wrapped him in pain such as he had never felt till now.

The house seemed full of menace.  In the little room the atmosphere was changed.  He looked round it and his eyes rested on the Hermes.  He went up to it and stood before it.

Instantly he felt again the exquisite calm of Elis.  The face of the Hermes made the thought of war seem horrible and ridiculous.  Men had learnt so much when Praxiteles created his Hermes, and they knew so little now.  The enigma of their violence was as great as the enigma of the celestial calm which the old Greeks had perpetuated to be forever the joy and the rest of humanity.  And he, Dion, was going to take an active part in violence.  The unchanging serenity of the Hermes, which brought all Elis before him, with its green sights and its wonderful sounds, of the drowsy insects in the sunshine, of the sheep-bells, and of the pines whose voices hold within them all the eternal secrets, increased the intensity of his misery.  He realized how unstable are the foundations of human happiness, and his house of life seemed crumbling about him.

Presently he went downstairs to his room and wrote letters to his mother and to Bruce Evelin, telling them what he had done.

When he had directed and stamped these letters he thought of Beattie and Guy.  Beattie knew.  What was it which had led her so instantly to a knowledge denied to Rosamund?  Rosamund had evidently not noticed any difference in him when he came in that evening.  But, to be sure, Robin had been there.

Robin had been there.

Dion sat before the writing-table for a long while doing nothing.  Then a clock struck.  He had only half an hour to spare before dinner would be ready.  Quickly he wrote a few words to Beattie: