She was degenerating--she knew it.

'I am a little beast, compared to what I was when I left school,' she confessed to herself with tears, and did not know how to get rid of this fiery plague that was eating at her heart.

She seemed to look back to a time--only yesterday!--when poetry and high ideals, friendships and religion filled her mind; and now nothing--nothing!--was of any importance, but the look, the voice, the touch of a man.
The next day, Desmond's last day at home, for he was due in London by the evening, was gloomy and embarrassed for all concerned.
Elizabeth, pre-occupied and shrinking from her own thoughts, could not imagine what had happened.

She had put off all her engagements for the day, that she might help in any last arrangements that might have to be made for Desmond.
But Desmond declined to be helped, not rudely, but with a decision, which took Elizabeth aback.
'Mayn't I look out some books for you?
I have found some more pocket classics,' she had said to him with a smile, remembering his application to her in the autumn.
'No, thank you.

I shall have no time.' And with that, a prompt retreat to Pamela and the Den.