"Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love."

"Yes, just that. It's me. It's my fault."

"Why did you marry him?"

"Oh, that!" Her eyes widened. "That's simple. I fell in love with him."

"I see."

"It was, I suppose, a kind of infatuation. He has great charm, and he's sexually attractive. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"And he was romantically attractive too. A dear old man, who's known me all my life, warned me. He said to me: 'Have an affair with Richard, but don't marry him.' He was quite right. You see, I was very unhappy, and Richard came along. I-day-dreamed. Love and Richard and an island and moonlight. It helped, and it didn't hurt anybody. Now I've got the dream-but I'm not the me I was in the dream. I'm only the me who dreamed it-and that's no good."

She looked across the table, straight into his eyes.

"Can I ever become the me of the dream? I'd like to."

"Not if it was never the real you."

"I could go away-but where? Not back into the past because that's all gone, broken up. I'd have to start again; I don't know how or where. And, anyway, I couldn't hurt Richard. He's already been hurt too much."

"Has he?"

"Yes, that woman he married. She was just a natural tart. Very attractive and quite good-natured, but completely amoral. He didn't see her like that."

"He wouldn't."

"And she let him down-badly-and he was terribly cut up about it. He blamed himself, thought he'd failed her in some way. He's no blame for her, you know, only pity."

"He has too much pity."

"Can one have too much pity?"

"Yes, it makes you unable to see straight."

"Besides," he added, "it's an insult."

"What do you mean?"

"It implies just what the Pharisee's prayer implied. 'Lord, I thank Thee I am not as this man.' "

"Aren't you ever sorry for anyone?"

"Yes. I'm human. But I'm afraid of it."

"What harm could it do?"

"It might lead to action."

"Would that be wrong?"

"It might have very bad results."

"For you?"

"No, no, not for me. For the other person."

"Then what should one do if one's sorry for a person?"

"Leave them where they belong-in God's hands."

"That sounds terribly implacable-and harsh."

"It's not nearly so dangerous as yielding to facile pity."

She leaned towards him.

"Tell me, are you sorry for me-at all?"

"I am trying not to be."

"Why not?"

"In case I should help you to feel sorry for yourself."

"You don't think I am-sorry for myself?"

"Are you?"

"No," she said slowly. "Not really. I've got all-mixed up somehow, and that must be my own fault."

"It usually is, but in your case it may not be."

"Tell me-you're wise, you go about preaching to people-what ought I to do?"

"You know."

She looked at him and suddenly, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a gay, gallant laugh.

"Yes," she said. "I know. Quite well. Fight."

Llewellyn looked up at the building before he entered it.

It was drab like the street in which it stood. Here, in this quarter of London, war damage and general decay still reigned The effect was depressing. Llewellyn himself felt depressed. The errand which he had come to perform was a painful one. He did not exactly shrink from it, but he was aware that he would be glad when he had discharged it to the best of his ability.

He sighed, squared his shoulders, and went up a short Bight of steps and through a swing door.

The inside of the building was busy, but busy in an orderly and controlled fashion. Hurrying but disciplined feet sped along the corridors. A young woman in a dull blue uniform paused beside him.

"What can I do for you?"

"I wish to see Miss Franklin."

"I'm sorry. Miss Franklin can't see anyone this morning. I will take you to the secretary's office."

He insisted gently on seeing Miss Franklin.

"It is important," he said, and added: "If you will please give her this letter."

The young woman took him into a minute waiting-room and sped away. Five minutes later a round woman with a kindly face and an eager manner came to him.

"I'm Miss Harrison, Miss Franklin's secretary. I'm afraid you will have to wait a few minutes. Miss Franklin is with one of the children who is just coming out of the anaesthetic after an operation."

Llewellyn thanked her and began to ask questions. She brightened at once, and talked eagerly about the Worley Foundation for Sub-Normal Children.

"It's quite an old foundation, you know. Dates back to 1840: Nathaniel Worley, our founder, was a mill-owner." Her voice ran on. "So unfortunate-the funds dwindled, investments brought in so much less… and rising costs… of course there were faults of administration. But since Miss Franklin has been superintendent…"

Her face lighted up, the speed of her words increased.

Miss Franklin was clearly the sun in her heaven. Miss Franklin had cleaned the Augean stables, Miss Franklin had reorganised this and that, Miss Franklin had battled with authority and won, and now, equally clearly, Miss Franklin reigned supreme, and all was for the best in the best of possible worlds. Llewellyn wondered why women's enthusiasms for other women always sounded so pitifully crude. He doubted if he should like the efficient Miss Franklin. She was, he thought, of the order of Queen Bees. Other women buzzed round them, and they waxed and throve on the power thus accorded to them.

Then at last he was taken upstairs and along a corridor, and Miss Harrison knocked at a door and stood aside, and motioned to him to go in to what was evidently the Holy of Holies-Miss Franklin's private office.

She was sitting behind a desk, and she looked frail and very tired.

He stared at her in awe and amazement as she got up and came towards him.

He said, just under his breath: "You…"

A faint, puzzled frown came between her brows, those delicately marked brows that he knew so well. It was the same face-pale, delicate, the wide sad mouth, the unusual setting of the dark eyes, the hair that sprang back from the temples, triumphantly, like wings. A tragic face, he thought, yet that generous mouth was made for laughter, that severe, proud face might be transformed by tenderness.

She said gently: "Dr. Llewellyn? My brother-in-law wrote to me that you would be coming. It's very good of you."

"I'm afraid the news of your sister's death must have been a great shock to you."

"Oh, it was. She was so young."

Her voice faltered for one moment, but she had herself well under control. He thought to himself: "She is disciplined, has disciplined herself."

There was something nun-like about her clothes. She wore plain black with a little white at the throat.

She said quietly:

"I wish it could have been I who died-not her. But perhaps one always wishes that."

"Not always. Only-if one cares very much-or if one's own life has some quality of the unbearable about it."

The dark eyes opened wider. She looked at him questioningly, she said:

"You're really Llewellyn Knox, aren't you?"

"I was. I call myself Dr. Murray Llewellyn. It saves the endless repetition of condolences, makes it less embarrassing for other people and for me."

"I've seen pictures of you in the papers, but I don't think I would have recognised you."

"No. Most people don't, now. There are other faces in the news-and perhaps, too, I've shrunk"

"Shrunk?"

He smiled.

"Not physically, but in importance."

He went on:

"You know that I've brought your sister's small personal possessions. Your brother-in-law thought you would like to have them. They are at my hotel. Perhaps you will dine with me there, or if you prefer, I will deliver them to you here?"