She wrenched herself free from me, and a terrified cry of “Marcus!” checked my dithyrambic appeal.  She shrank away so that a great corner of the dining-table separated us, and she stared at me as though my words hats been the affrighting utterance of a madman.

“Marcus!  What do you mean?” she cried, with an unnatural shrillness in her voice.

“I mean,” said I, “I mean—­I mean that ‘crushed by three days’ pressure, my three days’ love lies slain.’  Time has withered him at the root.  I have buried him deep in unconsecrated ground, like a vampire, with a stake through his heart.  And I have come back to you, Judith, humbly to crave your forgiveness and your love—­to tell you I have changed, dear—­to offer you all I have in the world if you will but take it—­to give you my life, my daily, hourly devotion.  My God!” I cried, “don’t you believe me?”

She still stared at me in a frightened way, leaning heavier on the table.  Her lips twitched before they could frame the words

“Yes, I believe you.  You have never lied to me.”

“Then in the name of love and heaven,” I cried, “why do you look at me like that?”

She trembled, evidently suppressing something with intense effort, whether bitter laughter, indignation or a passionate outburst I could not tell.

“You ask why?” she said, unsteadily.  “Because you seem like the angel of the flaming vengeance.”

At these astounding words it was my turn to look amazed.

“Vengeance?” I echud.  “What wrong have you done me or any living creature?  Come, my dear,” and I moved nearer by seating myself on the corner of the table, close to the type-writer, and leaning towards her, “let us look at this thing soberly.  If ever a man had need of woman I have need of you.  I can live alone no longer.  We must share one home henceforth together.  We can snap our fingers at the world, you and I. If you have anything to say against the proposal, let us discuss it calmly.”

Judith’s slender figure vibrated like a cord strung to breaking-point.  Her voice vibrated.

“Yes, let us discuss it calmly.  But not here.  The sight of you sitting in the middle of my life, between the sewing-machine and the type-writer, is getting on my nerves.  Let us go into the drawing-room.  There is an atmosphere of calm there—­” her voice quavered in a queer little choke—­“of sabbatical calm.”

I slid quickly from the table and put my arm round her waist.

“Tell me, Judith, what is amiss with you.”

She broke away from me roughly, thrusting me back.

“Nothing.  A woman’s nothing, if you understand what that means.  Come into the drawing-room.”

I opened the door; she passed out and I followed her along the passage.  She preceded me into the drawing-room, and I stayed for a moment to close the door, fumbling with the handle which has been loose for some months.  When I turned and had made a couple of steps forward, I halted involuntarily under the shock of a considerable surprise.