She felt sure that he had been discussing hair-waving with some woman.  She thought of all her grievances against him.  The Lechford House episode rankled in her mind.  He had given her the details, but she said to herself that he had given her the details only because he had foreseen that she would hear about the case from others or read about it in the newspapers.  She had not been able to stomach that he should be at Lechford House alone late at night with two women of the class she hated and feared—­and the very night of her dreadful experience with him in the bomb-explosion!  No explanations could make that seem proper or fair.  Naturally she had never disclosed her feelings.  Further, the frequenting of such a house as Lechford House was more proof of his social importance, and incidentally of his riches.  The spectacle of his flat showed her long ago that previously she had been underestimating his situation in the world.  The revelations as to Lechford House had seemed to show her that she was still underestimating it.  She resented his modesty.  She was inclined to attribute his modesty to a desire to pay her as little as he reasonably could.  However, she could not in sincerity do so.  He treated her handsomely, considering her pretensions, but considering his position—­he had no pretensions—­not handsomely.  She had had an irrational idea that, having permitted her to see the splendour of his flat, he ought to have increased her emoluments—­that, indeed, she should be paid not according to her original environment, but according to his.  She also resented that he had never again asked her to his flat.  Her behaviour on that sole visit had apparently decided him not to invite her any more.  She resented his perfectly hidden resentment.

What disturbed her more than anything else was a notion in her mind, possibly a wrong notion, that she cared for him less madly than of old.  She had always said to herself, and more than once sadly to him, that his fancy for her would not and could not last; but that hers for him should decline puzzled her and added to her grievances against him.  She looked at him from the little nest made by her head between two pillows.  Did she in truth care for him less madly than of old?  She wondered.  She had only one gauge, the physical.

She began to talk despairingly about Marthe, whom, of course, she had had to mention at the door.  He said quietly: 

“But it’s not because of Marthe’s caprices that I’m asked to come down to-night, I suppose?”

She told him about the closing of the Promenade in a tone of absolute, resigned certainty that admitted of no facile pooh-poohings or reassurances.  And then, glancing sidelong at the night-table, where the lamp burned, she extended her half-bared arm and picked up the landlord’s notice and gave it to him to read.  Watching him read it she inwardly trembled, as though she had started on some perilous enterprise the end of which might be black desperation,