She followed him to the room on the top floor, his refuge, pitched high above Rose and her movements and her troubles.
He paused at the door.
"He may thank his stars, Jinny, that he came across Nina instead of you."
"You think I'd better keep clear of him?"
"No. I think he'd better keep clear of you."
"George, is he really there?"
"Yes, he's there all right. He's caught. He's trapped. He can't get away from you."
"I won't," she said. "It's dishonourable."
He laughed and they went in.
The poet was sitting in Tanqueray's low chair, facing them. He rose at some length as they entered, and she discerned in his eyes the instinct of savage flight. She herself would have turned and fled, but for the singularity of such precipitance. She was afraid before this shyness of the unlicked Celt, of the wild creature trapped and caught unaware, by the guile she judged dishonourable.