There was heavy breathing on the stairs, a murmur of voices; she heard Mrs. Cotton say how the stairs ketched her in the wind, her having a weak heart and that. A deeper voice, that sent the blood rushing to Elizabeth’s face, answered. Then the knock fell on the door.

Elizabeth tried to say come in, but could not. Mrs. Cotton came without invitation, and in a voice which breathed rampant curiosity, said,

“Here’s your ’usband, ma’am. Mr. Ramsay.”

Elizabeth managed to speak.

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Cotton held the door for Stephen to pass through, then, reluctantly, shut it. Stephen came in with his clean stride and stopped just inside the door, facing Elizabeth.

In that brief moment, when both stood wretchedly tongue-tied, Elizabeth saw the sprinkling of grey in the hair above Stephen’s temples, and the tiny lines about his eyes. He was pale, and his lips were shut tight in a way she knew well. Foolishly, she noticed that he was wearing a suit that she had not seen before.

Stephen broke the silence, holding out muddied hands. He spoke with unnatural matter-of-factness, in jerks that betrayed his embarrassment.

“I—beg your pardon, Elizabeth, but—a tire burst. Can I—wash? I’m—so sorry.”

She thought, What a queer way for our interview to begin! but some of her fright left her, and she stepped forward.

“Yes, of course. I—I quite understand. C-come into my bedroom.”

“Thanks.” He waited for her to go first, and then followed her in. She remembered how uncomfortable Wendell had made her feel; it seemed perfectly natural for Stephen to be here. Yet once she had not thought so. She picked up the water-jug; Stephen took it from her.

“Don’t bother, dear.” He poured water into the basin, and began to wash his hands. She saw that they were unsteady, and grew calmer. She held the towel ready for him to use; in silence he dried his hands. Then they went back into the other room, and Elizabeth stammered,

“S-sit down, won’t you? I—you’ll—er—stay to tea— with me?”

Gravely he answered.

“It rather depends—on what you’re going to say to me, Elizabeth. Your letter—didn’t tell me much.”

“I—there’s a great deal—I must say. I—I am trying—but it’s difficult. There’s—there’s so much, you see.”

“Do I—make it difficult for you?” he asked gently.

“No. I—I expect it’s my own stupidity.” She smiled wanly. “I’m not so stupid as I was, Stephen. I—I couldn’t be, could I?”

He did not answer. She stared into the fire, and tried to steady her voice.

“I—I want to tell you, Stephen, that—if you still want me—I’ll come back to you.”