According to Jerrold’s code Maisie’s children would be an injury to Anne, a perpetual insult.  But Anne would forgive him; she would understand; she wouldn’t want to hurt Maisie.

So he went through with it.

And now he made out that mercifully, incredibly, he was being let off. 
He wouldn’t have to go on.

He stood by Maisie’s bed looking down at her as she lay there.  She had grasped his hands by the wrists, as if to hold back their possible caress.  And her little breathless voice went on, catching itself up and tripping.

“You won’t mind—­if I don’t let you—­come to me?”

“I’m sorry, Maisie.  I didn’t know you felt like that about it.”

“I don’t.  It isn’t because I don’t love you.  It’s just my silly nerves.  I get frightened.”

“I know.  I know.  It’ll be all right.  I won’t bother you.”

“Mother said I oughtn’t to ask you.  She said you wouldn’t understand and it would be too hard for you. Will it?”

“No, of course it won’t.  I understand perfectly.”

He tried to sound like one affectionately resigned, decently renouncing, not as though he felt this blessedness of relief, absolved from dread, mercifully and incredibly let off.

But Maisie’s sweetness hated to refuse and frustrate; it couldn’t bear to hurt him.  She held him tighter.  “Jerrold—­if it is—­if you can’t stand it, you mustn’t mind about me.  You must forget I ever said anything.  It’s nothing but nerves.”

“I shall be all right.  Don’t worry.”

“You are a darling.”

Her grasp slackened.  “Please—­please go.  At once.  Quick.”

As he went she put her hand to her heart.  She could feel the pain coming.  It filled her with an indescribable dread.  Every time it came she thought she should die of it.  If only she didn’t get so excited; excitement always brought it on.  She held her breath tight to keep it back.

Ah, it had come.  Splinters of glass, sharp splinters of glass, first pricking, then piercing, then tearing her heart.  Her heart closed down on the splinters of glass, cutting itself at every beat.

She looked under the pillow for the little silver box that held her pearls of nitrate of amyl.  She always had it with her, ready.  She crushed a pearl in her pocket handkerchief and held it to her nostrils.  The pain left her.  She lay still.

iii

And every Sunday at six in the evening, or nine (he varied the hour to escape suspicion), Jerrold came to Anne.

In the weeks before Maisie’s coming and after, Anne’s happiness was perfect, intense and secret like the bliss of a saint in ecstasy, of genius contemplating its finished work.  In giving herself to Jerrold she had found reality.  She gave herself without shame and without remorse, or any fear of the dangerous risks they ran.  Their passion was too clean for fear or remorse or shame.  She thought love was