He shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching a cinder under his heel. He looked down at it. Gudrun was aware of the beautiful old marble panels of the fireplace, swelling softly carved, round him and above him. She felt as if she were caught at last by fate, imprisoned in some horrible and fatal trap.

‘But what CAN be done?’ she murmured humbly. ‘You must use me if I can be of any help at all — but how can I? I don’t see how I CAN help you.’

He looked down at her critically.

‘I don’t want you to HELP,’ he said, slightly irritated, ‘because there’s nothing to be DONE. I only want sympathy, do you see: I want somebody I can talk to sympathetically. That eases the strain. And there IS nobody to talk to sympathetically. That’s