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Monica knew when she waked next morning that her ordeal was close at hand. Last night had been a foretaste of it, though she and Celia had taken refuge in music and had played persistently for an hour after their silent dinner. There was now the long day to be got through before she could see Clive, and her bruised and trembling heart shrank from the heavy hours. She wrote letters all morning; sprightly letters, wondering at herself as she turned the crisp sentences and made the merry quips. She sat down to her piano and doggedly practised the passages where she had failed last night. And after lunch she started for a long walk, telling Miriam that she would not be back till after tea-time. Clive might stop to see her on his way from the station. If he did not come she would send for him. She was fixed on that. She would not pass another night with this spectre between them. Tonight, before they slept, she and Hester and Clive should know all. And meanwhile she could walk and walk.

The afternoon lights were slanting over the quiet stubble fields when she came, after a round that had