"What did you say?" she asked, moving toward him.
"I don't know … but I don't think we can go on. I can't stand this … I shall go away."
"Go away—where?"
"Anywhere. I shall go away from you."
"You mean you'll leave us—Ronald and me?"
"Ronald … yes."
"As you please, Basil."
She turned and went back to the house by another path. There she took her work and shut herself up in her own room. It was cold; the fire was not lit. She shivered, walking up and down the room, but it did not occur to her to light the fire. Her discomfort seemed part of a general past that had enveloped the world. And yet there was a core of warmth somewhere, a thought that caused her a certain exultation. It was absurd of Basil to take this thing so seriously, but she was glad he was absurd in that way—she was thoroughly glad that he cared so much! Only, if he did take it seriously, who knew? She had no intention of being humble about what she had done. Perhaps it had been foolish, but had Basil alone the right to be foolish? Where was his right to sit in judgment upon her? How angry he had been at that word—"right"! Possibly it was a foolish word—they could not theorise about this situation. It was a
