“By that, my dear, you mean that I was a fool to have come.”

“No.”

“I must admit,” said Margaret, “that it was largely out of curiosity.”

“And you’ve been disappointed.”

“Is my approval so essential to your happiness?”

“On the contrary.”

“Well, then——?”

“The truth is,” said Edward, with his quick, unhappy, malicious little smile, “you wanted to be quite certain that the exception really did prove the rule.”

Margaret asked, with a sigh:

“Need we discuss this?”

“It seems to me that we might as well. For once.”

She was silent.

“But tell me, Margaret, this interests me. What have you got against Mitka?”

“That child? I barely noticed him.”

“‘That child?’” He mimicked her voice. “You’re starting to show off, my dear.”

“Well, perhaps I am, a little bit,” she grinned; “but I’m really and truly not saying one word against—Mitka? What a pretty name.”

“Very. You mean you think this kind of thing is always a failure?”

“No, I don’t say that. Not always.” She hesitated. “Not for everybody.”

“But for me?”

“Yes, Edward, I admit I do think that.”

There was a silence. Edward cleared his throat slightly; asked in a different, softer voice:

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t your style. It’s so——” she paused suddenly, uncontrollably laughed.

“Oh, Edward, I’m sorry, but I just can’t see you——”

“I wish you’d tell me the joke.”

“There isn’t a joke. Or, at least—yes, I can’t help it, it is funny—it’s like——”

“What?”

“Like being a nursery governess. Or a responsible private tutor.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Edward. You made me say it, you know. But it is. I think one would have to have absolutely no sense of humour. You’ve got far too much.”

“Perhaps not so much as you imagine.”

“My dear, you’re not angry with me, are you?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Not in the least. I’m very much interested.”

Again she sighed.

“Gracious! it’s late. I must be going.”

He followed her down the flights of stairs.

“My dear,” she said suddenly, “you know I hope I’m wrong.”

“I’m certain you hope you’re right.”

They parted smiling. Edward grinned, made his little bow. But he hated her. Really hated her. Taking hold of himself, clenching his will into a hard fist of obstinacy and hatred, he slowly climbed the stairs to the studio to wait for Mitka.

*   *   *

One evening, nearly seven months later, Mitka left the studio. He was going downstairs, he said, to the café for a packet of cigarettes. Edward had not been much surprised when, after three hours, he had not returned. Yet he couldn’t sleep. He could seldom sleep nowadays until he was pretty drunk. He sat up three-quarters of the night becoming so.