Jenny did not see Maurice after the party until the following night, when he waited in the court to take her out.

“Come quick,” he said.  “Quick.I’ve got something to show you.”

“Well, don’t run,” she commanded, moderating the pace by tugging at his coat.“You’re like a young race-horse.”

“First of all,” asked Maurice eagerly, “do you like opals?”

“They’re all right.”

“Only all right?”

“Well, I think they’re a bit like soapsuds.”

“I’m sorry,” said Maurice, “I’ve bought you opals for a birthday present.”

“I do like them,” she explained, “only they’re unlucky.”

“Not if you’re an October girl.They’re very lucky then.”

They were walking through jostling crowds down Coventry Street towards the Cafe de l’Afrique where Castleton would meet them to discuss a project of gayety.Jenny’s soft hand on his arm was not successful in banishing the aggrieved notes from Maurice’s petulant defense of opals.

“Oh, you miserable old thing!” she said.  “Don’t look so cross.”

“It’s a little disappointing to choose a present and then be told by the person it’s intended for that she dislikes it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.  I never said I didn’t like it.How could I?I haven’t seen it yet.”

“It’s hardly worth while showing it to you.You won’t like it.  I’d throw it in the gutter, if it wasn’t for this beastly crowd of fools that will bump into us all the time.”

“You are stupid.Give it to me.Please, Maurice.”

“No, I’ll get you something else,” he retorted, determined to be injured.  “I’m sorry I can’t afford diamonds.  I took a good deal of trouble to find you something old and charming.I ransacked every curiosity shop in London.That’s why I couldn’t meet you till to-night.Damned lot of use it’s been.I’d much better have bought you a turquoise beetle with pink topaz eyes or a lizard in garnets or a dragon-fly that gave you quite a turn, it was so like a real one, or a-

“Oh, shut up,” said Jenny, withdrawing her arm.

“It’s so frightfully disheartening.”

“But what are you making yourself miserable over?I haven’t said I don’t like your present.I haven’t seen it.”

“No, and you never will.Rotten thing!”

“You are unkind.”

“So are you.”

“Oh, good job.”

“You’re absolutely heartless.  I don’t believe you care a bit about me.  I wish to God I’d never met you.I can’t think about anything but you.I can’t work.  What’s the good of being in love?It’s a fool’s game.It’s unsettling.  It’s hopeless.I think I won’t see you any more after to-night.I can’t stand it.”

Jenny had listened to his tirade without interruption; but now as they were passing the Empire, she stopped suddenly, and said in a voice cold and remote: 

“Good night.I’m off.”

“But we’re going to meet Castleton.”

“You may be.I’m not.”

“What excuse shall I make to him?”

“I don’t care what you tell him.  He’s nothing to me.Nor you either.”

“You don’t mean that?” he gasped.

“Don’t I?”

“But Jenny!Oh, I say, do come into the Afrique.We can’t argue here. 
People will begin to stare.”

“People!I thought you didn’t mind about people?”

“Look here, I’m sorry.I am really.  Do stay.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

Jenny’s lips were set; her eyes dull with anger.

“I know I’m a bad-tempered ass,” Maurice admitted.“But do stay.  I meant it to be such a jolly evening.Only I was hurt about the opals.Do stay, Jenny.  I really am frightfully sorry.Won’t you have the brooch?I’m absolutely to blame.  I deserve anything you say or do.Only won’t you stay?Just this once.Do.”

Jenny was not proof against such pleading.  There was in Maurice’s effect upon her character something so indescribably disarming that, although in this case she felt in the right, she, it seemed, must always give way; and for her to give way, right or wrong, was out of order.

“Soppy me again,” was all she said.

“No, darling you,” Maurice whispered.“Such a darling, too.I hope Castleton hasn’t arrived yet.I want to tell you all over again how frightfully sorry I am.”

But when they had walked past the Buddha-like manager who, massive and enigmatical, broods over the entrance to the cafe, they could see Castleton in the corner.It was a pity; for the constraint of a lovers’ quarrel, not absolutely adjusted, hung over them still in the presence of a third person before whom they had to simulate ease.  Maurice, indeed, was so boisterously cordial that Jenny resented his dramatic ability, and, being incapable of simulation herself, showed plainly all was not perfectly smooth.

“What is the matter with our Jenny to-night?” Castleton inquired.

“Nothing,” she answered moodily.

“She feels rather seedy,” Maurice explained.

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you like the opal brooch?” Castleton asked.

“I haven’t seen it,” Jenny replied.

“I was waiting to give it to her in here,” Maurice suggested.

Jenny, who was examining herself in a pocket mirror, looked over at him from narrowing eyes.He turned to her, defending himself against the imputation of a lie.

“Castleton helped me to choose it.Look,” he said, “it’s an old brooch.”

He produced from his pocket a worn leather case on the faded mauve velvet of whose lining lay the brooch.It was an opal of some size set unusually in silver filigree with seed pearls and brilliants.

“It’s rather pretty,” Jenny commented without enthusiasm.In her heart she loved the old-fashioned trinket, and wanted to show her delight to Maurice; but the presence of Castleton was a barrier, and she was strangely afraid of tears that seemed not far away.Maurice, who was by now thoroughly miserable, offered to pin the brooch where it would look most charming; but Jenny said she would put it in her bag, and he sat back in the chair biting his lips and hating Castleton for not immediately getting up and going home.The latter, realizing something was the matter, tried to change the subject.

“What about this Second Empire masquerade at Covent Garden?”

“I don’t think we shall be able to bring it off.Ronnie Walker would be ridiculous as Balzac.”

“There are others.”

“Besides, I don’t think I want to be Théophile Gautier.”

“Don’t be, then,” advised Castleton.

“Anyway, it’s a rotten idea,” declared Maurice.

“What extraordinary tacks your opinions do take!” retorted his friend.  “Only this afternoon you were full of the most glittering plans and had found a prototype in 1850 for half your friends.”

“I’ve been thinking it over,” said Maurice.“And I’m sure we can’t work it.”

“Good-by, Gustave Flaubert,” said Castleton.“I confess I regret Flaubert; especially if I could have persuaded Mrs. Wadman to be George Sand and smoke a cigar.However, perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Who’s Mrs. Wadman?” asked Jenny.

“The aged female iniquity who ‘does’ for Maurice and me at Grosvenor Road.I’m sure on second thoughts it would be unwise to let her acquire the cigar habit.  I might be rich next year, and I should hate to see her dusting with a Corona stuck jauntily between toothless gums.”

“Oh, don’t be funny,” said Maurice.“You’ve no idea how annoying you are sometimes.Confound you, waiter,” he cried, turning to vent his temper in another direction.  “I ordered Munich and you’ve brought Pilsener.”

“Very sorry, sir,” apologized the waiter.

“It was I who demanded the blond beer,” Castleton explained.Then, as the waiter retired, he said: 

“Why not get him to come as Balzac?”

“Who?”

“The waiter.”

“Don’t be funny any more,” Maurice begged wearily.

“Poor Fuz,” said Jenny.“You’re crushed.”

“I now know the meaning of Blake’s worm that flies in the heart of the storm.”

Even Castleton was ultimately affected by the general depression; and Jenny at last broke the silence by saying she must go home.

“I’ll drive you back,” said Maurice.

“Hearse or hansom, sir?” Castleton asked.

“Good night, Fuz,” said Jenny on the pavement.“I’ll bring Madge and Maudie to see you some time soon.”

“Do,” he answered.  “They would invigorate even a sleepy pear.  Good night, dear Jenny, and pray send Maurice back in a pleasanter mood.”

For a few minutes the lovers drove along in silence.

It was Maurice who spoke first: 

“Jenny, I’ve been an idiot, and spoilt the evening.Do forgive me, Jenny,” he cried, burying his face in her shoulder.“My vile temper wouldn’t have lasted a moment if I could just have been kissed once; but Castleton got on my nerves and the waiter would hover about all the time and everybody enraged me.Forgive me, sweet thing, will you?”

Jenny abandoning at once every tradition of obstinacy, caught him to her.

“You silly old thing.”

“I know I am, and you’re a little darling.”

“And he wasn’t ever going to see me again.  What a liberty!Not ever.”

“I am an insufferable ass.”

“And he wished he’d never met me.Oh, Maurice, you do say unkind things.”

“Were you nearly crying once?” he asked.  “When I gave you the brooch?”

“Perhaps.”

“Jenny, precious one, are you nearly crying now?” he whispered.

“No, of course not.”

Yet when he kissed her eyelids they were wet.

“Shall I pin the brooch now?”

She nodded.

“Jenny, you don’t know how I hate myself for being unkind to you.I hate myself.I shall fret about this all night.”

“Not still a miserable old thing?” she asked, fingering the smooth face of the opal that had caused such a waste of emotion.

“Happy now.So happy.”He sighed on her breast.

“So am I.”

“You’re more to me every moment.”

“Am I?”

“You’re so sweet and patient.Such a pearl, such a treasure.”

“You think so.”

“My little Queen of Hearts, you’ve a genius for love.”

“What’s that?”

“I mean, you’re just right.  You never make a mistake.You’re patient with my wretched artistic temperament.Like a perfect work of art, you’re a perfect work of love.”

“Maurice, you are a darling,” she sighed on the authentic note of passionate youth in love.

“When you whisper like that, it takes my breath away....Jenny are you ever going to be more to me even than you are now?”

“What do you mean, more?” she asked.

“Well, everything that a woman can be to a man.You see I’m an artist, and an artist longs for the completion of a great work.  My love for you is the biggest thing in my life so far, and I long to complete it.Don’t you understand what I mean?”

“I suppose I do,” she said very quietly.

“Are you going to let me?”

“Some day I suppose I shall.”

“Not at once?”

“No.”

“Why not?Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Kiss me,” she said.  “I can’t explain.Don’t let’s talk about it any more.”

“I can’t understand women,” Maurice declared.

“Ah!”

She smiled; but in the smile there was more of sadness than mirth.

“Why waste time?” he demanded passionately.“God knows we have little enough time.Jenny, I warn you, I beg you not to waste time.You’re making a mistake.  Like all girls, you’re keeping one foot in a sort of washy respectability.”

“Don’t go on,” Jenny said.  “I’ve told you I will one day.”

“Why not come abroad with me if you’re afraid of what your people will say?”

“I couldn’t.Not while my mother was alive.”

“Well, don’t do that; but still it’s easy enough not-to waste time.Your mother need never find out.  I’m not a fool.”

“Ah, but I should feel a sneak.”

Maurice sighed at such scruples.

“Besides,” she added, “I don’t want to-not yet.  Can’t we be happy like we have been?I will one day.”

“You can’t play with love,” Maurice warned her.

“I’m not.I’m more in earnest than what you are.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“But I am.Supposing if you got tired of me?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Ah, but that’s where men are funny.All of a sudden you might take a sudden fancy to another girl.And then what about me?What should I do?”

“It comes to this,” he argued.“You don’t trust me yet.  You don’t believe in me.Good heavens, what can I do to show you I’m sincere?”

“Can’t you wait a little while?” she gently asked.

“I must.”

“And you won’t ask me again?”

“I won’t promise that.”

“Well, not for a long time?” Jenny pleaded.

“I won’t even promise that.You see I honestly think you’re making a mistake-a mistake for which you’ll be very sorry one day.I wish you understood my character better.”

“All men are the same.”She sighed out the generalization.

“That’s absurd, my dear girl.I might as well say all women are the same.”

“Well, they are.They’re all soppy.”

“Isn’t it rather soppy to go as far as you have with me, and not go farther?” Maurice spoke tentatively.

“Oh, I’ve properly joined the soppy brigade.I did think I was different, but I’m not.I’m well in the first line.”

“Don’t you think,” Maurice suggested-“of course, I’m not saying you haven’t had plenty of experience-but don’t you think there’s a difference between a gentleman and a man who isn’t a gentleman?”

“I think gentlemen are the biggest rotters of all.”

“I don’t agree with you.”

“I do.Listen.You asked me just now to come away with you.You didn’t ask me to marry you.”

Maurice bubbled over with undelivered explanations.

“Only what?” Maurice inquired gloomily.

“Only if I did all you wanted, I’d be giving everything-more than you’d give, even if you married a ballet girl.”

“Do let me explain,” Maurice begged.“You absolutely misunderstand me....  Oh, Lord, we’re nearly at Hagworth Street....  I’ve only time to say quite baldly what I mean.  Look here, if you married me you wouldn’t like it.You wouldn’t like meeting all my people and having to be conventional and pay calls and adapt yourself to a life that you hadn’t been brought up to.I’d marry you like a shot.I don’t believe in class distinctions or any of that humbug.But you’d be happier not married.  Can’t you see that?You’d be happier the other way....There’s your turning.  There’s no time for more....Only do think over what I’ve said and don’t misjudge me ... darling girl, good night.”

“Good night.”

“A long kiss.”

Reasons, policies, plans and all the paraphernalia of expediency vanished when she from the steps of her home listened to the bells of the hansom dying away in the distance, and when he, huddled in a corner of the cab, was conscious but of the perfume of one who was lately beside him.

In her bedroom Jenny examined the brooch.Perhaps what showed more clearly than anything the reality of her love was the affection she felt for Maurice when he was away from her.  She was never inclined to criticise the faults so easily forgotten in the charms which she remembered more vividly.Now, with the brooch before her, as she sat dangling her legs from the end of the bed, she recalled lovingly his eagerness to display the unfortunate opal.She remembered the brightness of his blue eyes and the vibrant attraction of his voice.He was a darling, and she had been unkind about opals.He was always a darling to her.  He never jarred her nerves or probed roughly a tender mood.

Jenny scarcely sifted so finely her attitude towards Maurice.She summed him up to herself in a generalization.In her mind’s eye he appeared in contrast to everybody else.  All that the rest of mankind lacked he possessed.  Whatever mild approval she had vouchsafed to any other man his existence obliterated.She had never created for herself an ideal whose tenuity would one day envelop a human being.Therefore, since there had never floated through her day-dreams a nebula with perfect profile, immense wealth and euphonious titles, Maurice had not to be fitted in with a preconception.  Nor would it be reasonable to identify her with one of the world’s Psyches in love with the abstraction of a state of mind and destined to rue its incarnation.  She had, it may be granted, been inclined to fall in love in response to the demand of her being; but it would be wrong to suppose her desire was gratified by the first person who came along.On the contrary, Maurice had risen suddenly to overthrow all that had gone before, and, as it seemed now, was likely to overthrow anything that might come after.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she was hypnotized into a meditative coma by the steady twin flames of the candle and its reflection in the toilet-glass.She was invested with the accessories favorable to crystal-gazing, and the brooch served to concentrate faculties that would under ordinary circumstances have lacked an object.Contrast as an absolute idea is often visualized during slightly abnormal mental phases.Fever often fatigues the brain with a reiteration of images in tremendous contrast, generally of mere size, when the mind is forced to contemplate again and again with increasing resentment the horrible disparity between a pin’s point and a pyramid.In Jenny’s mind Maurice was contrasted with the rest of the universe.  He was so overpowering and tremendous that everything else became a mere speck.In fact, during this semi-trance, Jenny lost all sense of proportion, and Maurice became an obsession.

Then suddenly the flame of the candle began to jig and flicker; the spell was broken, and Jenny realized it would be advisable to undress.

Action set her brain working normally, and the vast, absorbing generalization faded.  She began to think again in detail.How she longed for to-morrow, when she would be much nicer to Maurice than she had ever been before.She thought with a glow of the delightful time in front of them.  She pictured wet afternoons spent cosily in the studio.  She imagined herself, tired and bored, coming down the court from the stage door, with Maurice suddenly appearing round the corner to drive weariness out of London.It was glorious to think of someone who could make the worst headache insignificant and turn the most unsatisfactory morning to a perfect afternoon.Quickened by such thoughts, she got into bed without waking May, so that in a flutter of soft kisses she could sink deliciously to sleep, enclosed in the arms of her lover as an orchard by sunlight.

About two o’clock Jenny woke up to another psychic experience not unusual with hypersensitive temperaments.The ardor of the farewell embrace had consumed all the difficulties of the situation discussed on the journey home.  This ardor of merely sensuous love had lasted long enough to carry her off to sleep drowsed by a passionate content.Meanwhile her brain, working on what was originally the more vital emotion, brought her back to consciousness in the middle of the problem’s statement.Lying there in the darkness, Jenny blushed hotly, so instant was the mental attitude produced by Maurice’s demand.In previous encounters over this subject, her protagonists had all been so manifestly contemptible, their expectations so evident from the beginning, that their impudence had been extinguished by the fire of merely social indignation.Jenny had defeated them as the representative of her sex rather than herself.She had never comprehended the application of their desires to herself as a feasible proposition.They were a fact merely objectively unpleasant like monkeys in a cage, physically dangerous, however, with certain opportunities Jenny’s worldly wisdom would never afford.In the case of Maurice the encounter was actual, involving a clash of personalities:the course of her behavior would have to be settled.No longer fortified by the hostility of massed opinion, she would be compelled to entrust her decision to personal resolution and individual judgment.For the first time she was confronted with the great paradox that simultaneously restricts and extends a woman’s life.She remembered the effect of Edie’s announcement of surrender.It had sickened her with virginal wrath and impressed her with a sense of man’s malignity, and now here was she at the cross-roads of experience with sign-posts unmistakable to dominate her mental vision.

It was not astonishing that Jenny should blush with the consciousness of herself as a vital entity; for the situation was merely an elaboration of the commonplace self-consciousness incident to so small an action as entering alone a crowded room.  Years ago, as a little girl, she had once woken up with an idea she no longer existed, an idea dispelled by the sight of her clothes lying as usual across the chair.Now she was frightened by the overwhelming realization of herself:she existed too actually.  This analysis of her mental attitude shows that Jenny did not possess the comfortable mind which owes volition to external forces.Her brain registered sensations too finely; her sense of contact was too fastidious.  Acquiescence was never possible without the agony of experience.Her ambition to dance was in childhood a force which was killed by unimaginative treatment.  Once killed, nothing could revive it.So it would be with her love.In the first place, she was aware of the importance of surrender to a man.  She did not regard the step as an incident of opportunity.  All her impulses urged her to give way.Every passionate fire and fever of love was burning her soul with reckless intentions.On the other hand, she felt that if she yielded herself and tasted the bitterness of disillusionment, she would be forevermore liable to acquiesce.She would demand of her lover attributes which he might not possess, and out of his failure by the completeness of her personality she would create for herself a tragedy.

Finally a third aspect presented itself in the finality of the proposed surrender.She was now for the first time enjoying life with a fullness of appreciation which formerly she had never imagined.  She was happy in a sense of joy.When Cunningham was playing in the studio, she had felt how insecure such happiness was, how impatient of any design to imprison it in the walls of time.Indeed, perhaps she had seen it escaping on the echoes of a melody.  Then suddenly over all this confusion of prudence, debate, hesitation, breathless abandonment and scorching blushes, sleep resumed its sway, subduing the unnatural activity of a normally indolent mind.

She lay there asleep in the darkness without a star to aid or cross her destiny.She and her brooch of opals were swept out into the surge of evolution; and she must be dependent on a fallible man to achieve her place in the infallible scheme of the universe.