Its very calmness was frightful. Their conversation became stilted. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Nothing is settled upon. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said.
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