“Yes . . . it was honest,” she said very low, as if speaking to the memory of a feeling in a remote past.

He exploded.

“Curse your honesty! . . .  Is there any honesty in all this! . . .  When did you begin to be honest?  Why are you here?  What are you now? . . .  Still honest? . . .”

He walked at her, raging, as if blind; during these three quick strides he lost touch of the material world and was whirled interminably through a kind of empty universe made up of nothing but fury and anguish, till he came suddenly upon her face—­very close to his.  He stopped short, and all at once seemed to remember something heard ages ago.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” he shouted.

She did not flinch.  He perceived with fear that everything around him was still.  She did not move a hair’s breadth; his own body did not stir.  An imperturbable calm enveloped their two motionless figures, the house, the town, all the world—­and the trifling tempest of his feelings.  The violence of the short tumult within him had been such as could well have shattered all creation; and yet nothing was changed.  He faced his wife in the familiar room in his own house.  It had not fallen.  And right and left all the innumerable dwellings, standing shoulder to shoulder, had resisted the shock of his passion, had presented, unmoved, to the loneliness of his trouble, the grim silence of walls, the impenetrable and polished discretion of closed doors and curtained windows.  Immobility and silence pressed on him, assailed him, like two accomplices of the immovable and mute woman before his eyes.  He was suddenly vanquished.  He was shown his impotence.  He was soothed by the breath of a corrupt resignation coming to him through the subtle irony of the surrounding peace.

He said with villainous composure: 

“At any rate it isn’t enough for me.  I want to know more—­if you’re going to stay.”

“There is nothing more to tell,” she answered, sadly.

It struck him as so very true that he did not say anything.  She went on: 

“You wouldn’t understand. . . .”

“No?” he said, quietly.  He held himself tight not to burst into howls and imprecations.

“I tried to be faithful . . .” she began again.

“And this?” he exclaimed, pointing at the fragments of her letter.

“This—­this is a failure,” she said.

“I should think so,” he muttered, bitterly.

“I tried to be faithful to myself—­Alvan—­and . . . and honest to you. . . .”

“If you had tried to be faithful to me it would have been more to the purpose,” he interrupted, angrily.  “I’ve been faithful to you and you have spoiled my life—­both our lives . . .”  Then after a pause the unconquerable preoccupation of self came out, and he raised his voice to ask resentfully, “And, pray, for how long have you been making a fool of me?”

She seemed horribly shocked by that question.  He did not wait for an answer, but went on moving about all the time; now and then coming up to her, then wandering off restlessly to the other end of the room.