called it, in their foolish jargon?  Destruction, extermination rather—­this rending of a myriad fibres interwoven with another’s being!  Another?  But he was not other!  He and she were one, one in the mystic sense which alone gave marriage its significance.  The new law was not for them, but for the disunited creatures forced into a mockery of union.  The gospel she had felt called on to proclaim had no bearing on her own case....  She sent for the doctor and told him she was sure she needed a nerve tonic.

She took the nerve tonic diligently, but it failed to act as a sedative to her fears.  She did not know what she feared; but that made her anxiety the more pervasive.  Her husband had not reverted to the subject of his Saturday talks.  He was unusually kind and considerate, with a softening of his quick manner, a touch of shyness in his consideration, that sickened her with new fears.  She told herself that it was because she looked badly—­because he knew about the doctor and the nerve tonic—­that he showed this deference to her wishes, this eagerness to screen her from moral draughts; but the explanation simply cleared the way for fresh inferences.

The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a prolonged Sunday.  On Saturday the morning post brought a note from Mrs. Van Sideren.  Would dear Julia ask Mr. Westall to come half an hour earlier than usual, as there was to be some music after his “talk”?  Westall was just leaving for his office when his wife read the note.  She opened the drawing-room door and called him back to deliver the message.

He glanced at the note and tossed it aside.  “What a bore!  I shall have to cut my game of racquets.  Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.  Will you write and say it’s all right?”

Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening on the chair-back against which she leaned.

“You mean to go on with these talks?” she asked.

“I—­why not?” he returned; and this time it struck her that his surprise was not quite unfeigned.  The discovery helped her to find words.

“You said you had started them with the idea of pleasing me—­”

“Well?”

“I told you last week that they didn’t please me.”

“Last week?  Oh—­” He seemed to make an effort of memory.  “I thought you were nervous then; you sent for the doctor the next day.”

“It was not the doctor I needed; it was your assurance—­”

“My assurance?”

Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her.  She sank into the chair with a choking throat, her words, her reasons slipping away from her like straws down a whirling flood.

“Clement,” she cried, “isn’t it enough for you to know that I hate it?”

He turned to close the door behind them; then he walked toward her and sat down.  “What is it that you hate?” he asked gently.

She had made a desperate effort to rally her routed argument.

“I can’t bear to have you speak as if—­as if—­our marriage—­were like the other kind—­the wrong kind.  When I heard you there, the other afternoon, before all those inquisitive gossiping people, proclaiming that husbands and wives had a right to leave each other whenever they were tired—­or had seen some one else—­”