She did not answer.

Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said:  “I don’t know what your idea of a wife’s duty is.  I never have known!”

He had not expected her to reply, but she did.

“I have tried to do what you want; it’s not my fault that I haven’t been able to put my heart into it.”

“Whose fault is it, then?” He watched her askance.

“Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage was not a success.  Is it a success?”

Soames frowned.

“Success,” he stammered—­“it would be a success if you behaved yourself properly!”

“I have tried,” said Irene.  “Will you let me go?”

Soames turned away.  Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster.

“Let you go?  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  Let you go?  How can I let you go?  We’re married, aren’t we?  Then, what are you talking about?  For God’s sake, don’t let’s have any of this sort of nonsense!  Get your hat on, and come and sit in the Park.”

“Then, you won’t let me go?”

He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look.

“Let you go!” he said; “and what on earth would you do with yourself if I did?  You’ve got no money!”

“I could manage somehow.”

He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood before her.

“Understand,” he said, “once and for all, I won’t have you say this sort of thing.  Go and get your hat on!”

She did not move.

“I suppose,” said Soames, “you don’t want to miss Bosinney if he comes!”

Irene got up slowly and left the room.  She came down with her hat on.

They went out.

In the Park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the Achilles statue.

It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park.  That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, pride.  How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat.

His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart?

The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment.  Once or twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered “Yes” with a tired smile.

Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him when he passed.

“Look at that ass!” said Soames; “he must be mad to walk like that in this heat!”