She was beside him in the time of a breath.  But he had not fainted, though his head had crashed down on the wood, for his fingers, buried in his hair, still laced and interlaced.  She did not dare touch him; but she grovelled for the blotter, which at the moment of his groan had fallen to the floor, and stood staring at it.  For a second her attention was dispersed by a shudder of disgust, for she felt Roger’s noisy mouth-breathing at her ears.  Then the proof leapt to her eyes.  There was a rim of plain paper round the calendar on the inside of the cover, and this was covered with words and phrases written in the exquisite small script of Marion.  “This is the end.  Death.  Death.  Death.  This is the end.  I must die.  Give him to Ellen.  I must die.”

Roger tumbled back towards Poppy.  “The awful sin of self-destruction!” he wailed.

This proof struck through her with an awful, unifying grief.  She had had evidence of Marion’s intention which had convinced her mind, but it was all derived from ugliness:  from the awkwardness of the woman’s talk, the plainness of the face against the glass, the intrusive loitering of a squat figure in the garden.  The soul had hearkened to these ugly messengers from reality since it had desired to know the truth, but it had made them cry their message from as far off as possible and as briefly as might be.  But this lovely black arabesque of letters had the power of beauty.  It ran into the core of her soul and told its story at its leisure.  Her flesh, which before had grieved as any that is living might grieve for any that is dead, now knew the sorrow appropriate to the destruction of Marion’s wide, productive body.  For what her spirit learned and admitted it had always known of that burning thing which had been Marion she looked round the room in reverence, since she had lived there.  The light on the handle of the French window caught her eye, and she wept.  She had been annoyed with Marion because she could not turn it.  But who would not find it difficult to open a door if it was death on which it opened?

“Richard, I love your mother!” she sobbed.  “I love your mother so!”

He muttered something.  In case he was speaking to her she bent down and listened.  But he was repeating over and over again in accents of irony:  “Give him up to Ellen.  Give him up to Ellen.  Oh, mother, mother....”

By the passion for Marion that was wringing her she could measure the flame that must be devouring him.  There was a strong impulse in her to feel nothing but pity for him; to apprehend with resignation that there might be a period ahead during which he might feel hatred for her, loathing her for being alive when his mother, who deserved so well, was dead.  She stepped backward from the desk so that he need not be vexed by any sense of her.  Yet she had a feeling as she moved that she was taking a step infinitely rash, infinitely dangerous....

She became aware that behind her Roger was shaking words out of his weeping body.  “You ought to be on your knees, you two!  You’ve killed my mummie with your wickedness!”