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she had so nearly said, “I wish I were.” Philip had said she was making a fool of herself, and she had almost said, “I wish I were.” And that would mean she wished that Anne had not come back to trouble them. She couldn’t wish that—she couldn’t ever wish that!
    Philip looked at her with what she thought was contempt.
    “You’re a damned little fool!” he said. “You’ve done your level best to queer my pitch, you know. What are you doing it for?”
    She stood in front of him like a grieving child.
    “What have I done?”
    He laughed.
    “It’s more a case of what haven’t you done. If there was anything she didn’t know, you’ve been down on your knees handing it to her. Haven’t you?”
    “You mean about the photographs?” She spoke in a slow, troubled voice.
    Philip took her by the wrists.
    “Look at me! She isn’t Anne. Anne is dead. No—go on looking at me! Why do you think she is Anne?” His grasp tightened. “Do you really think so?”
    She went on looking at him, but she hadn’t any words. He let go of her and stepped back, laughing.
    “You’re not sure, are you? You stand there and you don’t say a word. Where have they all gone? You’d find them quick enough if you were really sure. Shall I tell you some of the things you can’t find those words for?” He drove his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door. “At first you were sure—you hadn’t a doubt. It was all ‘Oh, let us be joyful! Anne isn’t dead—she never has been!’ ”
    She hadn’t looked away. She said,
    “Yes—”
    “And then it wasn’t quite so joyful, was it?” His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “Not—quite—so—joyful. You had to whip it up a bit. That meant tumbling over yourself to do anything she asked.”
    “Yes—” again, but this time it wasn’t said by the pale lips. It was the eyes which said it, wincing away from Philip’s.
    He said, “If I didn’t love you like hell I’d knock your head off!”
    If it was possible to turn any paler, she did so. It may have been only a tensing of the muscles, giving that drawn look to a skin already blanched. Her hands took hold of one another and clung rigidly. She said,
    “You mustn’t—”
    Only very keen hearing could have caught the words. Philip’s hearing was keen. He said,
    “Which?” Then, as her eyes came back to his face in a look of tragic reproach, “Mustn’t love you—or mustn’t knock your head off?”
    “You know—”
    His smile came, and went again. Just for a moment you could see how it would warm and soften the Jocelyn type. Just for a moment the hard lines about the mouth relaxed and a gleam of humour changed the eyes. It was a very fleeting affair. Before Lyndall could take any comfort from it he was saying,
    “You’re quite right—I know. I mustn’t love you because Annie Joyce is putting up an act and pretending to be Anne. That’s it—isn’t it?”
    “Because of Anne—because Anne is your wife.” A little louder this time, but the lips hardly moving.
    Philip said in an icy, exasperated tone,
    “That woman isn’t Anne, and she certainly isn’t my wife! Don’t you suppose I should know? You can’t be married to a woman for a year and not know her. Anne and I knew each other very well. Every time we quarrelled we knew each other a little better. This woman doesn’t know me any better than I know her. We don’t meet anywhere—she is an utter stranger.”
    Lyndall’s eyes had been blank with pain. Something stirred in them now—some thought, some consciousness. Then the pain swamped it.
    Philip said roughly, “You want to be a little martyr—don’t you? Just because I love you—Anne is alive. Just because she’s going to come between us—Annie Joyce has got to be Anne. Just because it hurts like blazes—you’ve got to do everything you can to put her between us. And I suppose you think I’m going to back you up. Well, I’m not.” He put out a hand. “Come here!” he