Huddling to him she whispered:  “Yes, oh, yes!  If you die, I could not go on living.”

It was this utter dependence on him, the feeling that he had rescued something, which gave him sense of anchorage.  That, and his buried life in the retreat of these two rooms.  Just for an hour in the morning, from nine to ten, the charwoman would come, but not another soul all day.  They never went out together.  He would stay in bed late, while Wanda bought what they needed for the day’s meals; lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, recalling her face, the movements of her slim, rounded, supple figure, robing itself before his gaze; feeling again the kiss she had left on his lips, the gleam of her soft eyes, so strangely dark in so fair a face.  In a sort of trance he would lie till she came back.  Then get up to breakfast about noon off things which she had cooked, drinking coffee.  In the afternoon he would go out alone and walk for hours, any where, so long as it was East.  To the East there was always suffering to be seen, always that which soothed him with the feeling that he and his troubles were only a tiny part of trouble; that while so many other sorrowing and shadowy creatures lived he was not cut off.  To go West was to encourage dejection.  In the West all was like Keith, successful, immaculate, ordered, resolute.  He would come back tired out, and sit watching her cook their little dinner.  The evenings were given up to love.  Queer trance of an existence, which both were afraid to break.  No sign from her of wanting those excitements which girls who have lived her life, even for a few months, are supposed to need.  She never asked him to take her anywhere; never, in word, deed, look, seemed anything but almost rapturously content.  And yet he knew, and she knew, that they were only waiting to see whether Fate would turn her thumb down on them.  In these days he did not drink.  Out of his quarter’s money, when it came in, he had paid his debts—­their expenses were very small.  He never went to see Keith, never wrote to him, hardly thought of him.  And from those dread apparitions—­Walenn lying with the breath choked out of him, and the little grey, driven animal in the dock—­he hid, as only a man can who must hide or be destroyed.  But daily he bought a newspaper, and feverishly, furtively scanned its columns.

VIII

Coming out of the Law Courts on the afternoon of January 28th, at the triumphant end of a desperately fought will case, Keith saw on a poster the words:  “Glove Lane Murder:  Trial and Verdict”; and with a rush of dismay he thought:  ‘Good God!  I never looked at the paper this morning!’ The elation which had filled him a second before, the absorption he had felt for two days now in the case so hardly won, seemed suddenly quite sickeningly trivial.  What on earth had he been doing to forget that horrible business even for an instant?  He stood quite still on the crowded pavement, unable, really unable, to buy a paper.  But his face was like a piece of iron when he did step forward and hold his penny out.  There it was in the Stop Press!  “Glove Lane Murder.  The jury returned a verdict of Guilty.  Sentence of death was passed.”