Not only was her house of life made desolate; it was defiled.  Dumb and ashamed, she abandoned herself like a child to the arms of God, too agonised to pray.

An hour passed.

Then slowly, as she knelt, the religious instinct regained possession of her.  It was as if her soul had been flung adrift, had gone out with the ebb of the spiritual sea, and now rocked, poised, waiting for the turn of the immortal tide.

Her lips parted, almost mechanically, in the utterance of the divine name.  Aware of that first motion of her soul, she gathered herself together, and concentrated her will upon some familiar prayer for guidance.  For a little while she prayed thus, grasping at old shadowy forms of petition as they went by her, lifting her sunken mind by main force from stupefaction; and then, it was as if the urging, steadying will withdrew, and her soul, at some heavenly signal, moved on alone into the place of peace.

CHAPTER II

It was broad daylight outside.  A man was putting out the lights one by one along the cold little grey parade.  A figure, walking slowly, with down-bent head, was approaching the hotel from the pier.  Anne recognised it as that of her husband.  Both sights reminded her that her life had to be begun all over again, and to go on.

Another hour passed.  Majendie had sent up a waitress with breakfast to her room.  He was always thoughtful for her comfort.  It did not occur to her to wonder what significance there might be in his thus keeping away from her, or what attitude toward her he would now be inclined to take.  She would not have admitted that he had a right to any attitude at all.  It was for her, as the profoundly injured person, to decide as to the new disposal of their relations.

She was very clear about her grievance.  The facts, that her husband had been pointed at in the public drawing-room of their hotel; that the terrible statement she had overheard had been made and received casually; that he had assumed, no less casually, her knowledge of the thing, all bore but one interpretation:  that Walter Majendie and the scandal he had figured in were alike notorious.  The marvel was that, staying in the town where he lived and was known, she herself had not heard of it before.  A peculiarly ugly thought visited her.  Was it possible that Scarby was the very place where the scandal had occurred?

She remembered now that, when she had first proposed that watering-place for their honeymoon, he had objected on the ground that Scarby was full of people whom he knew.  Besides, he had said, she wouldn’t like it.  But whether she would like it or not, Anne, who had her bridal dignity to maintain, considered that in the matter of her honeymoon his wishes should give way to hers.  She was inclined to measure the extent of his devotion by that test.  Scarby, she said, was not full of people who knew her.  Anne had been insistent and Majendie passive, as he was in most unimportant matters, reserving his energies for supremely decisive moments.