I knew she spoke rightly.  When she is not swept away to hysterical action by her temperament, she has a perception exquisitely keen into the heart of truth.

“The parting of the ways?” said I.  “Yes; but can’t you rest at the cross-roads?  Can’t you lead your present life—­your husband and myself, both, just your friends?”

“Rupert has need of me,” she replied very quickly.  “He is a man in torment of soul.  He has gone to this extreme of religious fanaticism because he is still uncertain of himself.  We had another long talk to-day.  I may help him.”

“does he deserve the sacrifice of your life?”

She did not take up my question directly; but sat for a few minutes with her chin on her hand looking into the fire.

“He is a man of evil passions,” she resumed, at last.  “Drink and women mainly dragged him down.  I knew the hell of it during the short time of our married life.  If he falls away now, he believes he is damned to all eternity.  He believes in the material torture—­flames and devils and pitchforks—­of damned souls.  He says in me alone lies his salvation.  I must go.  If the tin church gets too awful, I shall run over to Delphine Carrere for a week to steady my nerves.”

What could I say?  The abomination of desolation lay around about me.  I might have prated to her of my needs, wrung her heart with the piteousness of my appeal. Cui bono? I can’t whine to women—­or to men either, for the matter of that.  When I am by myself I can curse and swear, play Termagant and rehearse an extravaganza out-Heroding all the Herods that ever Heroded.  But before others—­no.  I believe my great-grandfather, before he qualified for his baronetcy, was a gentleman.

“But on these occasions,” said I, “you will avoid a sequestered and meditative self.”

Her laugh got choked by a sob.

“Do you remember that?  It is not so long ago—­and yet it seems many, many years.”

We moralised generally, after the way of humans, who desire to postpone a moment of anguished speech.  She made the tour of my book-shelves.  Many of the books she had borrowed, and she recognised them as old friends.

“Is that where Benvenuto Cellini has always lived?”

“Yes,” said I, running my hand along the row.  “He is in his century, among his companions.  He would be unhappy anywhere else.”

“And the History—­how far has it gone?”

I showed her the pile of finished manuscript, of which she glanced at a few pages.  She put it down hurriedly and turned away.

“I can’t see to read, just now, Marcus.”

Then she paused in front of her own photograph, the only one now on the mantel-piece.

“Will you give me that back?”

“Why should I?” I asked.

“I would rather—­I should not like you to burn it.”

“Burn it?  All I have left of you?”