III + 

The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work⁠—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened? + 

Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others⁠—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence. + 

The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: “It’s too beastly⁠—why do we do it?” she would ask. + 

And Stephen would answer: “God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!” + 

Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination! + 

Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer. + 