Wendell had gone. Elizabeth crouched in one corner of the sofa, sobbing drily, and twisting her crumpled handkerchief between her fingers. The thought dominant in her mind was that of all things she most needed a protector. She saw now, too late, to what risks she had exposed herself; badly she wanted Stephen, who was the only man in the world who was capable of understanding, and helping her. If Lawrence had been different, she thought, she could have turned to him, but Lawrence had never been really a father to her, and would now condemn her indiscretion in triumph. There was Mr. Hengist, but he was after all only a friend, and one of a previous generation. She knew no one but Stephen who would be of use now.

In wonderment she remembered how she had thought Stephen coarse and brutal. It seemed ludicrous, now that she had seen into Wendell’s soul. Wendell had said, I thought what any man would have thought. But Wendell did not know Stephen. In his place Stephen would have had the insight to realise the limit of her affections; Stephen would surely not have misconstrued her words as Wendell had done.

She passed her handkerchief across her lips, still trembling. Her mouth was bruised from Wendell’s kisses; there were marks on her shoulder where his fingers had dug into her flesh. That was Horror. Her eyes dilated as she dwelt upon that violent embrace; it was Horror such as she had never known; fear of Stephen’s passion was as nothing beside it. She had felt sick with loathing; she was still sick, at heart.

Self-hatred and shame swept over her. She was not as bad as Wendell thought, but how bad only she knew. It was the old fault, borne in upon her this time with a force that wounded mortally. She had deceived herself as always. She had faced only that which was pleasant and easy. The ugly truth she had shunned, cheating herself into a belief that her friendship with Wendell was orthodox and blameless. He had rudely torn away her illusions, battered through pretence, cruelly and coarsely.

Mr. Hengist had warned her that one day her cheating would lead her into serious difficulties. He could not have foreseen anything so serious as this. Lack of moral courage, inability to look truth in the face when it was unpleasant, had brought her to an unbelievable climax. People were talking about her, scandalously; they believed the worst thing possible of her who had always prided herself on her delicate purity.

She thought now, I am not good at all. I knew that Charles was in love with me. I pretended that I didn’t know.