Sense and Sensibility

CHAPTER 44

Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyedthe first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended byhis hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command thansupplication,

”Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you tostay.”

”No, sir,” she replied with firmness, ”I shall NOT stay. Your businesscannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you thatMr. Palmer was not in the house.”

”Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, ”that Mr. Palmer and allhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from thedoor. My business is with you, and only you.”

”With me!”--in the utmost amazement--”well, sir,--be quick--and if youcan--less violent.”

”Sit down, and I will be both.”

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of ColonelBrandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she hadpromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor wasengaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding thatprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would bestpromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. Hetook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said byeither.

”Pray be quick, sir,”--said Elinor, impatiently;--”I have no time tospare.”

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not tohear her.

”Your sister,” said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--”is outof danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is ittrue? is it really true?”

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greatereagerness.

”For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?”

”We hope she is.”

He rose up, and walked across the room.

”Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,”--speakingwith a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--”what does itsignify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood forgaiety.-- Tell me honestly”--a deeper glow overspreading hischeeks--”do you think me most a knave or a fool?”

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began tothink that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, andof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with thisimpression she immediately rose, saying,

”Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am notat leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may bewith me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.”

”I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voiceperfectly calm; ”yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my coldbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.”

”At Marlborough!”--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understandwhat he would be at.

”Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only tenminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me anuncheon at Marlborough.”

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as hespoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly mightbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, shesaid, after a moment's recollection,

”Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after whathas passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself uponmy notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that youmean by it?”--

”I mean,”--said he, with serious energy--”if I can, to make you hate meone degree less than you do NOW. I mean to offer some kind ofexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heartto you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always ablockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something likeforgiveness from Ma--from your sister.”

”Is this the real reason of your coming?”

”Upon my soul it is,”--was his answer, with a warmth which brought allthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself madeher think him sincere.

”If that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for Marianne DOES--shehas LONG forgiven you.”

”Has she?”--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- ”Then she has forgivenme before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again,and on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me?”

Elinor bowed her assent.

”I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, andthoughtfulness on his own,--”how YOU may have accounted for mybehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may haveimputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it isworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I firstbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other viewin the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obligedto remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not butplease me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of akind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHEwas, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I mustconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I hadalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by everymeans in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any designof returning her affection.”

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the mostangry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

”It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for meto listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed byany thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on thesubject.”

”I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, ”My fortune wasnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit ofassociating with people of better income than myself. Every year sincemy coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; andthough the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yetthat event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been forsome time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying awoman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was nota thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness,cruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, MissDashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--Butone thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfishvanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because Idid not THEN know what it was to love. But have I ever known it?--Wellmay it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed myfeelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I havesacrificed hers?-- But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty,which her affection and her society would have deprived of all itshorrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing thatcould make it a blessing.”

”You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, ”believe yourself atone time attached to her?”

”To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood suchtenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, Ifound myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and thehappiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt myintentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. EvenTHEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, Iallowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the momentof doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while mycircumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--norwill I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse thanabsurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was alreadybound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing withgreat circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myselfcontemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolutionwas taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openlyassure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains todisplay. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours thatwere to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with herin private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruinall my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery tookplace,”--here he hesitated and looked down.--”Mrs. Smith had somehow orother been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interestit was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but Ineed not explain myself farther,” he added, looking at her with anheightened colour and an enquiring eye--”your particular intimacy--youhave probably heard the whole story long ago.”

”I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heartanew against any compassion for him, ”I have heard it all. And how youwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, Iconfess is beyond my comprehension.”

”Remember,” cried Willoughby, ”from whom you received the account.Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and hercharacter ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justifymyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I havenothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint. If the violence ofher passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved bettertreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tendernesswhich, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. Iwish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more thanherself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I sayit?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! howinfinitely superior!”--

”Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must sayit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may wellbe--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Donot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect ofunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself inDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she wasreduced to the extremest indigence.”

”But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it,” he warmly replied; ”I did notrecollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sensemight have told her how to find it out.”

”Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”

”She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may beguessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, herignorance of the world--every thing was against me. The matter itselfI could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She waspreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct ingeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in mypresent visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure Imight have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That couldnot be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--wasspent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. Thestruggle was great--but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficientto outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those falseideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined tofeel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believemyself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and Ipersuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remainedfor me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leaveDevonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; someapology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. Butwhether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was apoint of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, andI even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to myresolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again.”

”Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?” said Elinor, reproachfully; ”a notewould have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?”

”It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave thecountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of theneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed betweenMrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at thecottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the eveningbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! Afew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember howhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage toAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But inthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a senseof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Hersorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I wasobliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forgetit--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh,God!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was!”

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.

”Did you tell her that you should soon return?”

”I do not know what I told her,” he replied, impatiently; ”less thanwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much morethan was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.--It won'tdo.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all herkindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it DID torture me. I wasmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort itgives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myselffor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my pastsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, Iwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I wasonly indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflectionsso cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when Ilooked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessedjourney!”

He stopped.

”Well, sir,” said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient forhis departure, ”and this is all?”

”Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamousletter--Did she shew it you?”

”Yes, I saw every note that passed.”

”When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was intown the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to beexpressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise anyemotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every wordwas--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,would forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in townwas--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts anddaggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, heropinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I amsure they are dearer.”

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of thisextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt ither duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

”This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married.Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.”

”Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as informer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had beenseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full offaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I sayawakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had insome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardenedvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy thatshe too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of ourpast attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up myshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall beheartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made meknow myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me thanany other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. Butevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreatwas impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sentno answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from herfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call inBerkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of acool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safelyout of the house one morning, and left my name.”

”Watched us out of the house!”

”Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, howoften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many ashop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I didin Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch aglimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constantwatchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keepout of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided theMiddletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who waslikely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being intown, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of hiscoming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked meto a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me asan inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should havefelt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The nextmorning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct mosthateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could not frame asentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play thehappy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worsethan all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced onme; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby insuch a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for anexplanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speakingsolicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the otherhand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is overnow.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could;but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white asdeath.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the lastmanner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight!--yet when Ithought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to meto imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who sawher last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as Itravelled, in the same look and hue.”

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby firstrousing himself, broke it thus:

”Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,certainly out of danger?”

”We are assured of it.”

”Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne.”

”But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing tosay about that?”

”Yes, yes, THAT in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, youknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I wasbreakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, wasbrought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia'seye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, thehand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vaguereport had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady inDevonshire, and what had passed within her observation the precedingevening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealousthan ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which isdelightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence.She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could haveborne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased.And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style ofletter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?”

”Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing.”

”Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences asI was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her ownhappy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!--we wereengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I amtalking like a fool. Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her moneywas necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to bedone to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to mycharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what languagemy answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end. My businesswas to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or abluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in theiropinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from theirsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter willonly make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, andparted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes--unluckilythey were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied theirexistence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, andcould not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too I had alwayscarried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched byMadam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, everymemento was torn from me.”

”You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,” said Elinor, whileher voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;”you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or mysister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Yourwife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. Shemust be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treather with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement toMarianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.”

”Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy sigh.-- ”She doesnot deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when wemarried.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to behappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pityme, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--beit only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I wasbefore?--My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained awayany part of my guilt?”

”Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have provedyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You haveproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardlyknow--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could havemade it worse.”

”Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have beentelling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as wellas in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me beable to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my presentfeelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, moregentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and mypenitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and ifyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”

”I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively becalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me theparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.”

”Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, andwhen he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke tome.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen withoutsurprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupidsoul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew oughtto--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly. Asbluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that MarianneDashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter thatmorning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger mostimminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too muchshocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to theundiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, healmost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promiseabout a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister wasdying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell whathorrid projects might not have been imputed? ONE person I was surewould represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt wasdreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock thismorning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on theirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequenthabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, thecharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of personand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and afeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant andvain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at leastits offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faultypropensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, againstevery better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when nolonger allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for thesake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far moreincurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at theend of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverieat least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, andsaid--

”There is no use in staying here; I must be off.”

”Are you going back to town?”

”No--to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in aday or two. Good bye.”

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;--hepressed it with affection.

”And you DO think something better of me than you did?”--said he,letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgettinghe was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished himwell--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentlecounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer wasnot very encouraging.

”As to that,” said he, ”I must rub through the world as well as I can.Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowedto think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, itmay be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may besomething to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--”

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

”Well,”--he replied--”once more good bye. I shall now go away and livein dread of one event.”

”What do you mean?”

”Your sister's marriage.”

”You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she isnow.”

”But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one shouldbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will notstay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing thatwhere I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God blessyou!”

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.