The narrator believed that the exact moment when the devil entered into Barrett was four forty-five p.m. on a certain June afternoon, when he and she were standing at Parker's door in the court at ——s. He says himself that he was as pure as snow till that instant, and that if the entente cordiale between himself and that very interesting and stimulating personality had not been established he is convinced he would either have died young of excessive virtue, or have become a missionary. The narrator disagrees. She only knows that the consequences of the entente aged me. But then Barrett says she was born middle-aged like Maitland himself, the hero of this romance, if so it can be called. Barrett calls it a romance. The narrator doesn't know what to call it, but it covers her with shame whenever she thinks of it.