Dinner, with the talk needful to blinding the household—­for what is more revolting than giving away the sufferings of the heart?—­was almost unendurable and directly it was over, they went, he to his study, she back to the piano.  There she sat, ready to strike the notes if anyone came in; and tears fell on the hands that rested in her lap.  With all her soul she longed to go and clasp him in her arms and cry:  “I don’t care—­I don’t care!  Do what you like—­go to her—­if only you’ll love me a little!” And yet to love—­a little!  Was it possible?  Not to her!

In sheer misery she went upstairs and to bed.  She heard him come up and go into his dressing-room—­and, at last, in the firelight saw him kneeling by her.

“Gyp!”

She raised herself and threw her arms round him.  Such an embrace a drowning woman might have given.  Pride and all were abandoned in an effort to feel him close once more, to recover the irrecoverable past.  For a long time she listened to his pleading, explanations, justifications, his protestations of undying love—­strange to her and painful, yet so boyish and pathetic.  She soothed him, clasping his head to her breast, gazing out at the flickering fire.  In that hour, she rose to a height above herself.  What happened to her own heart did not matter so long as he was happy, and had all that he wanted with her and away from her—­if need be, always away from her.

But, when he had gone to sleep, a terrible time began; for in the small hours, when things are at their worst, she could not keep back her weeping, though she smothered it into the pillow.  It woke him, and all began again; the burden of her cry:  “It’s gone!” the burden of his:  “It’s not—­can’t you see it isn’t?” Till, at last, that awful feeling that he must knock his head against the wall made him leap up and tramp up and down like a beast in a cage—­the cage of the impossible.  For, as in all human tragedies, both were right according to their natures.  She gave him all herself, wanted all in return, and could not have it.  He wanted her, the rest besides, and no complaining, and could not have it.  He did not admit impossibility; she did.

At last came another of those pitying lulls till he went to sleep in her arms.  Long she lay awake, staring at the darkness, admitting despair, trying to find how to bear it, not succeeding.  Impossible to cut his other life away from him—­impossible that, while he lived it, this girl should not be tugging him away from her.  Impossible to watch and question him.  Impossible to live dumb and blind, accepting the crumbs left over, showing nothing.  Would it have been better if they had been married?  But then it might have been the same—­reversed; perhaps worse!  The roots were so much deeper than that.  He was not single-hearted and she was.  In spite of all that he said, she knew he didn’t really want to give up that girl.  How could he?  Even if the girl would let him go!  And slowly there formed within her a gruesome little plan to test him.  Then, ever so gently withdrawing her arms, she turned over and slept, exhausted.