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ther of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but
he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that
two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a
trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her
think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised
peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would
wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel,
that she could not take exception to them. At last she got
up.
‘I think I must be going off now,’ she said.
‘I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,’ he answered.
She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and
opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak
about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimi-
dated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that
unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discov-
ered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the
same manner.
‘You haven’t forgotten what you promised?’ she said at
last, as he held open the door.
‘What is that?’
‘About the money”
‘How much d’you want?’
He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words
peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated
him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control
by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He
wanted to make her suffer.
‘There’s the dress and the book tomorrow. That’s all. Har-

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