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to see her unmasked； unrestrained； unconscious of her
duties？ a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive
freedom？ No； he refused to believe it。 It was in her
loneliness that Katharine was unreserved。 “I went back
to my room by myself and I did—what I liked。” She had
said that to him； and in saying it had given him a glimpse
of possibilities； even of confidences； as if he might be
the one to share her loneliness； the mere hint of which
made his heart beat faster and his brain spin。 He checked
himself as brutally as he could。 He saw her redden； and in
the irony of her reply he heard her resentment。
He began slipping his smooth； silver watch in his pocket；
in the hope that somehow he might help himself back to
that calm and fatalistic mood which had been his when
he looked at its face upon the bank of the lake； for that
mood must； at whatever cost； be the mood of his intercourse
with Katharine。 He had spoken of gratitude and
acquiescence in the letter which he had never sent； and
now all the force of his character must make good those
vows in her presence。
She； thus challenged； tried meanwhile to define her
points。 She wished to make Denham understand。
“Don’t you see that if you have no relations with people
it’s easier to be honest with them？” she inquired。 “That
is what I meant。 One needn’t cajole them； one’s under no
obligation to them。 Surely you must have found with your
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own family that it’s impossible to discuss what matters
to you most because you’re all herded together； because
you’re in a conspiracy； because the position is false—”
Her reasoning suspended itself a little inconclusively； for
the subject was plex； and she found herself in ignorance
whether Denham had a family or not。 Denham was
agreed with her as to the destructiveness of the family
system； but he did not wish to discuss the problem at
that moment。
He turned to a problem which was of greater interest to
him。
“I’m convinced；” he said； “that there are cases in which
perfect sincerity is possible—cases where there’s no relationship；
though the people live together； if you like；
where each is free； where there’s no obligation upon either
side。”
“For a time perhaps；” she agreed； a little despondently。
“But obligations always grow up。 There are feelings to be
considered。 People aren’t simple； and though they may
mean to be reasonable； they end”—in the condition in
which she found herself； she meant； but added lamely—
”in a muddle。”
“Because；” Denham instantly intervened； “they don’t
make themselves understood at the beginning。 I could
undertake； at this instant；” he continued； with a reasonable
intonation which did much credit to his selfcontrol；
“to lay down terms for a friendship which should be perfectly
sincere and perfectly straightforward。”
She was curious to hear them； but； besides feeling that
the topic concealed dangers better known to her than to
him； she was reminded by his tone of his curious abstract
declaration upon the Embankment。 Anything that hinted
at love for the moment alarmed her； it was as much an
infliction to her as the rubbing of a skinless wound。
But he went on； without waiting for her invitation。
“In the first place； such a friendship must be unemotional；”
he laid it down emphatically。 “At least； on both
sides it must be understood that if either chooses to fall
in love； he or she does so entirely at his own risk。 Neither
is under any obligation to the other。 They must be at
liberty to break or to alter at any moment。 They must be
able to say whatever they wish to say。 All this must be
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understood。”
“And they gain something worth having？” she asked。
“It’s a risk—of course it’s a risk；” he replied。 The word
was one that she had been using frequently in her arguments
with herself of late。
“But it’s the only way—if you think friendship worth
having；” he concluded。
“Perhaps under those conditions it might be；” she said
reflectively。
“Well；” he said； “those are the terms of the friendship I
wish to offer you。” She had known that this was ing；
but； none the less； felt a little shock； half of pleasure；
half of reluctance； when she heard the formal statement。
“I should like it；” she began； “but—”
“Would Rodney mind？”
“Oh no；” she replied quickly。
“No； no； it isn’t that；” she went on； and again came to
an end。 She had been touched by the unreserved and yet
ceremonious way in which he had made what he called
his offer of terms； but if he was generous it was the more
necessary for her to be cautious。 They would find them
selves in difficulties； she speculated； but； at this point；
which was not very far； after all； upon the road of caution；
her foresight deserted her。 She sought for some definite
catastrophe into which they must inevitably plunge。
But she could think of none。 It seemed to her that these
catastrophes were fictitious； life went on and on—life
was different altogether from what people said。 And not
only was she at an end of her stock of caution； but it
seemed suddenly altogether superfluous。 Surely if any one
could take care of himself； Ralph Denham could； he had
told her that he did not love her。 And； further； she meditated；
walking on beneath the beechtrees and swinging
her umbrella； as in her thought she was accustomed to
plete freedom； why should she perpetually apply so
different a standard to her behavior in practice？ Why； she
reflected； should there be this perpetual disparity between
the thought and the action； between the life of
solitude and the life of society； this astonishing precipice
on one side of which the soul was active and in
broad daylight； on the other side of which it was contemplative
and dark as night？ Was it not possible to step
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from one to the other； erect； and without essential change？
Was this not the chance he offered her—the rare and
wonderful chance of frie