The Seraph had marked his confidence in me by the bestowal of a latch-key. I let myself in at Adelphi Terrace and wandered round the flat in search of him. He was not in the library or dining-room, but at length I discovered him in pyjamas sitting in the balcony outside his bedroom, and gazing disconsolately out over the river. He knew where I had been before I had time to tell him, and was able to make a fairly accurate guess at the nature of my conversation with Joyce. Perhaps there was nothing very wonderful in that, but it fitted in with the rest of his theory: I remember he summarised her mental condition by saying that a certain sub-conscious idea was coming to be consciously apprehended. It was a cumbrous way of saying that both Joyce and I had made rather an important discovery; what puzzled me then, and puzzles me still, is that at my first meeting with her either of us should have given him grounds for forming any theory at all. Even admitting that I may have been visibly impressed, I could see no response in her; but I have almost given up trying to understand the Seraph's mind or mode of thought.
"You've not got her yet," he warned me.
"No one knows that better than I do."
"Her mind's still very full of her cause."
"Yes, damn it."
"Almost as full of it as of you. She's torn between you, and you'll have to fight if you want to keep your foothold."
I told him, as I had told Joyce, that I proposed to break the Suffrage movement.
"How?" he asked.
"I thought you might be able to help. What is going to be the end of it?"
He shook his head moodily, and picked up a cigarette.