“God!  I’ll break his damned neck,” he cried again, and raged off into the Bush.

She crept into the house.  A wild thought came to her that, if there were any killing it would be Kraill who would do it.  And he and she would run away for awhile, right into the Bush, before people came to hang them.  She stopped breathing at the gloriousness, the primitive full-bloodedness of it, and then writhed in horror at the greed of such thoughts, and prayed passionately that a sentry might be put at the door of her mind.

And she knew, very well, that presently Louis would be back—­that he would say once again all the foul things he had said before, now with some glimmering of truth in them:  that he would get money from somewhere and be drunk to-night, for now, at least, he had excuse.  Then he would grin foolishly, and cry weakly, and rage and be futilely violent, and she would have to take this quivering thing that housed her armoured soul and make it do his service; she would have to undress him and wash him so that Andrew, trotting in in the morning, should not see his father in bed dirty; she would have to kiss away his ravings, soothe his fears.  Presently she shook her head many times.  She knew that she could never do that any more.

An hour, two hours passed.  She sat quite still.  Then a shadow crossed the window and steps came on to the verandah.  She did not move.  Louis stood by the door.  Kraill was beside him.  Louis looked quite sane, and very unusually young and boyish.  There was a queerly different look about him.  She stared at him for a moment; almost it seemed as though she could see a shine about him for an instant.  Then she looked at Kraill, and he at her.  She did not move, but her soul was on its knees worshipping his beautiful, still eyes that were tragic no longer, but very wise and sad.  He read all that she did not say.

Louis coughed.

“Marcella—­I’m sorry, old girl.  Kraill has talked to me about it.  He’s been—­or rather—­we’ve been bucking each other up.”

He coughed awkwardly.

“Bucking each other up—­no end, old lady,” he added, and ran his hand through his hair, making it wild, and rough.

She smiled faintly with her lips.  For another moment she could not snatch her eyes away from Kraill’s.

Then she said faintly: 

“It’s all very well, Louis.  You’re always being sorry!  Aren’t you?”

“This is the last time, Marcella, that there’ll be any need to be very sorry,” he said solemnly.  “I was going to clear out for good, but Kraill made me come back.”

“That’s all very well, too.  Professor Kraill is going away.  He doesn’t have to put up with you.  He doesn’t have to sleep with you.  You will be drunk to-night, and every night when there’s any money.  And next day you’ll be whining about it.  I’ve lost hope now.  I’m tired, tired of to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow.”

Kraill’s eyes were on her.  The echo of a cock that crowed outside a door in Jerusalem nineteen hundred years ago came to her and her eyes filled with tears.