Their relations, he said, had had no more significance than a chance meeting.  This they both understood; therefore she must realise that, sooner or later, it must end.  And now the time was come.

Indeed, it had more significance, she said.  There had never been any one to whom she had been so much attached; this she had proved to him.  Now she had come here to tell him that she was enceinte.  She was in as great despair about it as any one could be.  It was ruin for herself and her children.  She had never contemplated anything so frightful, but her mad love had carried her away; so now she was where she deserved to be.

Rafael did not answer, for he could not collect his thoughts.  She sat at a table, her face buried in her hands, but his eye fell on her strong arms in the close-fitting sleeves, her little foot thrust from beneath her dress; he saw how her whole frame was shaken by sobs.  Nevertheless, what first made him collect his thoughts was not sympathy with her who was here before him; it was the thought of Helene, of the Dean, of his mother:  what would they say?

As though she were conscious whither his thoughts had flown, she raised her head.  “Will you really go away from me?” What despair was in her face!  The strong woman was weaker than a child.

He stood erect before her, beside his open trunk.  He, too, was absolutely miserable.

“What good will it do for me to stay here?” he asked gently.

Her eyes fixed themselves on him, dilating, becoming clearer every moment.  Her mouth grew scornful.  She seemed to grow taller every moment.

“You will marry me if you are an honourable man!”

“Marry—­you?” he exclaimed, first startled, then disdainful.  An evil expression came into her eyes; she thrust her head forward; the whole woman collected herself for the attack like a tiger-cat, but it ended with a violent blow on the table.

“Yes you shall, devil take me!” she whispered.

She rushed past him to the window.  What was she going to do?

She opened it, screamed out he could not clearly hear what, leant far out, and screamed again; then closed it, and turned towards him, threatening, triumphant.  He was as white as a sheet, not because he was frightened or dreaded her threats, but because he recognised in her a mortal enemy.  He braced himself for the struggle.

She saw this at once.  She was conscious of his strength before he had made a movement.  There was that in his eye, in his whole demeanour, which she would never be able to overcome:  a look of determination which one would not willingly contest.  If he had not understood her till now, he had equally revealed himself to her.

All the more wildly did she love him.  He rejoiced that he had taken no notice of what she had done, but turned to put the last things into his trunk and fasten it.  Then she came close up to him, in more complete contrition, penitence, and wretchedness than he had ever seen in life or art.  Her face stiffened with terror, her eyes fixed, her whole frame rigid, only her tears flowed quietly, without a sob.  She must and would have him.  She seemed to draw him to herself as into a vortex:  her love had become the necessity of her life, its utterances the wild cry of despair.