“You intend to leave me, then?” she said at length.

His gesture seemed to deprecate the crudeness of the allusion.

“To marry some one else?”

Again his eye and hand protested.  She rose and stood before him.

“Why should you be afraid to tell me?  Is it Una Van Sideren?”

He was silent.

“I wish you good luck,” she said.

III

She looked up, finding herself alone.  She did not remember when or how he had left the room, or how long afterward she had sat there.  The fire still smouldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight had left the wall.

Her first conscious thought was that she had not broken her word, that she had fulfilled the very letter of their bargain.  There had been no crying out, no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at temporizing or evasion.  She had marched straight up to the guns.

Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself alive.  She looked about her, trying to recover her hold on reality.  Her identity seemed to be slipping from her, as it disappears in a physical swoon.  “This is my room—­this is my house,” she heard herself saying.  Her room?  Her house?  She could almost hear the walls laugh back at her.

She stood up, a dull ache in every bone.  The silence of the room frightened her.  She remembered, now, having heard the front door close a long time ago:  the sound suddenly re-echoed through her brain.  Her husband must have left the house, then—­her husband? She no longer knew in what terms to think:  the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge.  She sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange weakness.  The clock struck ten—­it was only ten o’clock!  Suddenly she remembered that she had not ordered dinner...or were they dining out that evening? Dinner—­dining out—­the old meaningless phraseology pursued her!  She must try to think of herself as she would think of some one else, a some one dissociated from all the familiar routine of the past, whose wants and habits must gradually be learned, as one might spy out the ways of a strange animal...

The clock struck another hour—­eleven.  She stood up again and walked to the door:  she thought she would go up stairs to her room. Her room?  Again the word derided her.  She opened the door, crossed the narrow hall, and walked up the stairs.  As she passed, she noticed Westall’s sticks and umbrellas:  a pair of his gloves lay on the hall table.  The same stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the same old French print, in its narrow black frame, faced her on the landing.  This visual continuity was intolerable.  Within, a gaping chasm; without, the same untroubled and familiar surface.  She must get away from it before she could attempt to think.  But, once in her room, she sat down on the lounge, a stupor creeping over her...