I said nothing.  I felt what was coming.  I tried to be the old Egbert Craddock Cummins of shambling gait and stammering sincerity, whom she loved, but I felt even as I did so that I was a new thing, a thing of surging emotions and mysterious fixity—­like no human being that ever lived, except upon the stage.  “Egbert,” she said, “you are not yourself.”

“Ah!” Involuntarily I clutched my diaphragm and averted my head (as is the way with them).

“There!” she said.

“What do you mean?” I said, whispering in vocal italics—­you know how they do it—­turning on her, perplexity on face, right hand down, left on brow.  I knew quite well what she meant.  I knew quite well the dramatic unreality of my behaviour.  But I struggled against it in vain.  “What do you mean?” I said, and, in a kind of hoarse whisper, “I don’t understand!”

She really looked as though she disliked me.  “What do you keep on posing for?” she said.  “I don’t like it.  You didn’t use to.”

“Didn’t use to!” I said slowly, repeating this twice.  I glared up and down the gallery with short, sharp glances.  “We are alone,” I said swiftly. “Listen!” I poked my forefinger towards her, and glared at her.  “I am under a curse.”

I saw her hand tighten upon her sunshade.  “You are under some bad influence or other,” said Delia.  “You should give it up.  I never knew anyone change as you have done.”

“Delia!” I said, lapsing into the pathetic.  “Pity me, Augh!  Delia! Pit—­y me!”

She eyed me critically. “Why you keep playing the fool like this I don’t know,” she said.  “Anyhow, I really cannot go about with a man who behaves as you do.  You made us both ridiculous on Wednesday.  Frankly, I dislike you, as you are now.  I met you here to tell you so—­as it’s about the only place where we can be sure of being alone together——­”

“Delia!” said I, with intensity, knuckles of clenched hands white.  “You don’t mean——­”

“I do,” said Delia.  “A woman’s lot is sad enough at the best of times.  But with you——­”

I clapped my hand on my brow.

“So, good-bye,” said Delia, without emotion.

“Oh, Delia!” I said.  “Not this?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Cummins,” she said.

By a violent effort I controlled myself and touched her hand.  I tried to say some word of explanation to her.  She looked into my working face and winced.  “I must do it,” she said hopelessly.  Then she turned from me and began walking rapidly down the gallery.

Heavens!  How the human agony cried within me!  I loved Delia.  But nothing found expression—­I was already too deeply crusted with my acquired self.

“Good-baye!” I said at last, watching her retreating figure.  How I hated myself for doing it!  After she had vanished, I repeated in a dreamy way, “Good-baye!” looking hopelessly round me.  Then, with a kind of heart-broken cry, I shook my clenched fists in the air, staggered to the pedestal of a winged figure, buried my face in my arms, and made my shoulders heave.  Something within me said “Ass!” as I did so. (I had the greatest difficulty in persuading the Museum policeman, who was attracted by my cry of agony, that I was not intoxicated, but merely suffering from a transient indisposition.)