She looked up at him, saying nothing, and he savoured the intelligence of her weary, fine, alert, comprehending face.  He did not pretend to himself to be able to fathom the enigmas of that long glance.  He had again the feeling of the splendour of what it was to be alive, to have survived.  Just as he was leaving she said casually: 

“Very well.  I’ll do what you want.”

“What I want?”

“I won’t go to Sarah Churcher’s.”

“You mean you’ll come as assistant secretary?”

She nodded.  “Only I don’t need to be paid.”

And he, too, fell into a casual tone: 

“That’s excellent.”

Thus, by this nonchalance, they conspired to hide from themselves the seriousness of that which had passed between them.  The grotesque, pretentious little apartment was mysteriously humanised; it was no longer the reception-room of a furnished flat by chance hired for a month; they had lived in it.

She finished, eagerly smiling: 

“I can practise my religion just as much with you as with Sarah Churcher, can’t I?  Queen was on your committee, too.  Yes, I shan’t be deserting her.”

The remark disquieted his triumph.  That aspect of the matter had not occurred to him.

Chapter 36

COLLAPSE

Late of that same afternoon G.J., in the absence of the chairman, presided as honorary secretary over a meeting of the executive committee of the Lechford hospitals.  In the course of the war the committee had changed its habitation more than once.  The hotel which had at first given it a home had long ago been commandeered by the Government for a new Government department, and its hundreds of chambers were now full of the clicking of typewriters and the dictation of officially phrased correspondence, and the conferences which precede decisions, and the untamed footsteps of messenger-flappers, and the making of tea, and chatter about cinemas, blouses and headaches.  Afterwards the committee had been the guest of a bank and of a trust company, and had for a period even paid rent to a common landlord.  But its object was always to escape the formality of rent-paying, and it was now lodged in an untenanted mansion belonging to a viscount in a great Belgravian square.  Its sign was spread high across the facade; its posters were in the windows; and on the door was a notice such as in 1914 nobody had ever expected to see in that quadrangle of guarded sacred castles:  “Turn the handle and walk in.”  The mansion, though much later in date, was built precisely on the lines of a typical Bloomsbury boarding-house.  It had the same basement, the same general disposition of rooms, the same abundance of stairs and paucity of baths, the same chilly draughts and primeval devices for heating, and the same superb disregard for the convenience of servants.  The patrons of domestic architecture had permitted architects to learn nothing in seventy years except that chimney-flues must be constructed so that they could be cleaned without exposing sooty infants to the danger of suffocation or incineration.