‘Who?’

’Crettell.  He had just been made a judge.  He was the youngest judge on the bench—­only forty-six.’

‘Was that the man?’ I exclaimed; for Crettell’s character was well known in London.

’That was the man.  Frank came in yesterday afternoon, and after he had glanced at the paper, he said:  “By the way, Crettell’s dead.”  I did not grasp it at first.  He repeated:  “Crettell—­he’s dead.”  I burst into tears.  I couldn’t help it.  And, besides, I forgot.  Frank asked me very roughly what I was crying for.  You know, Frank has much changed these last few months.  He is not as nice as he used to be.  Excuse me talking like this, my dear.  Something must be worrying him.  Well, I said as well as I could while I was crying that the news was a shock to me.  I tried to stop crying, but I couldn’t.  I sobbed.  Frank threw down the paper and stamped on it, and he swore.  He said:  “I know you’ve always been in love with the brute, but you needn’t make such a damn fuss about it.”  Oh, my dear, how can I tell you these things?  That angered me.  This was the first time in our married life that Crettell had been even referred to, and it seemed to me that Frank put all the hatred of fifteen years into that single sentence.  Why was I angry?  I didn’t know.  We had a scene.  Frank lost his temper, for the first time that I remember, and then he recovered it.  He said quietly he couldn’t stand living with me any more; and that he had long since wanted to leave me.  He said he would never see me again.  And then one of the servants came in, and—­’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.  I sent her out.  And—­and—­Fran didn’t come home last night.’

There was a silence.  I could find nothing to say, and Mary had hidden her face.  I utterly forgot myself and my own state in this extraordinary hazard of matrimony.  I could only think of Mary’s grief—­a grief which, nevertheless, I did not too well comprehend.

‘Then you love him now?’ I ventured at length.

She made no reply.

‘You love him—­is that so?’ I pursued.  ‘Tell me honestly.’

I spoke as gently as it was in me to speak.

‘Honestly!’ she cried, looking up.  ’Honestly!  No!  If I loved him, could I have been so upset about Crettell?  But we have been together so long.  We are husband and wife, Carlotta.  We are so used to each other.  And generally he is so good.  We’ve got on very well, considering.  And now he’s left me.  Think of the scandal!  It will be terrible! terrible!  A separation at my age!  Carlotta, it’s unthinkable!  He’s mad—­that’s the only explanation.  Haven’t I tried to be a good wife to him?  He’s never found fault with me—­never!  And I’m sure, as regards him, I’ve had nothing to complain of.’

‘He will come back,’ I said.  ‘He’ll think things over and see reason.’

And it was just as though I heard some other person saying these words.

‘But he didn’t come home last night,’ Mary insisted.  ’What the servants are thinking I shouldn’t like to guess.’