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—Oh, this could not be borne! This was too much to bear! And it might still not be true; for there was Aunt Harriet and, her arms laid out before her on the desk, her hands clenched, Monica stared at Aunt Harriet—the racy old lady with grey side curls and stiffly flowered silk dress. Even if Aunt Harriet were fiction—even if she were fiction, he would be justified in dexterity to shield a friendship innocent, passionate and shattered. ‘It still may not be true,’ Monica muttered, rising to her feet. ‘They may have been friends, great friends.’ And she stared out of the window and saw now, not the nebulous figure of Aunt Harriet, but Ingpen’s eyes fixed upon her, measuring her suspicion, measuring her knowledge, asking himself: ‘Has she read the inscription?’ Oh, no! No! The ring had its history. 1918. During the war. What did the phrase bring back? Chartres and the muffled windows; Ingpen’s head bent to the engravings in the hall; Hester’s repudiating, sullen eyes as she said it was like a skull. They had been at Chartres together and Ingpen, ten years ago, would have been engaged in no platonic friendship with a girl of twenty-two, a girl who could look as Hester looked the other night;—and she flashed on Monica’s eye naked and silver and rose, in the new dress chosen for the old lover.