preordained from the beginning of all things, and summing up in their

finality the whole purpose of creation.
"For your sake," he repeated.

Her shoulders shook as though she had been sobbing, and he forgot
himself in the contemplation of her hair. Suddenly he gave a start, as

if waking up, and asked very gently and not much above a whisper--
"Have you been meeting him often?"

"Never!" she cried into the palms of her hands.
This answer seemed for a moment to take from him the power of speech.

His lips moved for some time before any sound came.
"You preferred to make love here--under my very nose," he said,

furiously. He calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully uneasy, as
though he had let himself down in her estimation by that outburst.

She rose, and with her hand on the back of the chair confronted him
with eyes that were perfectly dry now. There was a red spot on each of

her cheeks.
"When I made up my mind to go to him--I wrote," she said.

"But you didn't go to him," he took up in the same tone. "How far did
you go? What made you come back?"

"I didn't know myself," she murmured. Nothing of her moved but her
lips. He fixed her sternly.

"Did he expect this? Was he waiting for you?" he asked.
She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to

look at her for a good while without making a sound. Then, at last--
"And I suppose he is waiting yet?" he asked, quickly.

Again she seemed to nod at him. For some reason he felt he must know
the time. He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-past seven.

"Is he?" he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket. He looked up at
her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a

short, harsh laugh, directly repressed.
"No! It's the most unheard! . . ." he mumbled while she stood before

him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought. He laughed
again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation. He did

not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the
facts of existence--for facts in general--such an immensedisgust at

the thought of all the many days already lived through. He was
wearied. Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength. He said--

"You deceived me--now you make a fool of him . . . It's awful! Why?"
"I deceived myself!" she exclaimed.

"Oh! Nonsense!" he said, impatiently.
"I am ready to go if you wish it," she went on, quickly. "It was due

to you--to be told--to know. No! I could not!" she cried, and stood
still wringing her hands stealthily.

"I am glad you repented before it was too late," he said in a dull
tone and looking at his boots. "I am glad . . . some spark of better

feeling," he muttered, as if to himself. He lifted up his head after
a moment of brooding silence. "I am glad to see that there is some

sense of decency left in you," he added a little louder. Looking at
her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible

consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out--
"After all, I loved you. . . ."

"I did not know," she whispered.
"Good God!" he cried. "Why do you imagine I married you?"

The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered her.
"Ah--why?" she said through her teeth.

He appeared overcome with horror, and watched her lips intently as
though in fear.

"I imagined many things," she said, slowly, and paused. He watched,
holding his breath. At last she went on musingly, as if thinking

aloud, "I tried to understand. I tried honestly. . . . Why? . . . To
do the usual thing--I suppose. . . . To please yourself."

He walked away smartly, and when he came back, close to her, he had a
flushed face.

"You seemed pretty well pleased, too--at the time," he hissed, with
scathing fury. "I needn't ask whether you loved me."

"I know now I was perfectlyincapable of such a thing," she said,
calmly, "If I had, perhaps you would not have married me."

"It's very clear I would not have done it if I had known you--as I
know you now."

He seemed to see himself proposing to her--ages ago. They were
strolling up the slope of a lawn. Groups of people were scattered in

sunshine. The shadows of leafy boughs lay still on the short grass.
The coloured sunshades far off, passing between trees, resembled

deliberate and brilliant butterflies moving without a flutter. Men
smiling amiably, or else very grave, within the impeccable shelter of

their black coats, stood by the side of women who, clustered in clear
summer toilettes, recalled all the fabulous tales of enchanted gardens

where animated flowers smile at bewitched knights. There was a
sumptuous serenity in it all, a thin, vibrating excitement, the

perfect security, as of an invincible ignorance, that evoked within
him a transcendent belief in felicity as the lot of all mankind, a

recklessly picturesque desire to get promptly something for himself
only, out of that splendour unmarred by any shadow of a thought. The

girl walked by his side across an open space; no one was near, and
suddenly he stood still, as if inspired, and spoke. He remembered

looking at her pure eyes, at her candid brow; he remembered glancing
about quickly to see if they were being observed, and thinking that

nothing could go wrong in a world of so much charm, purity, and
distinction. He was proud of it. He was one of its makers, of its

possessors, of its guardians, of its extollers. He wanted to grasp it
solidly, to get as much gratification as he could out of it; and in

view of its incomparable quality, of its unstained atmosphere, of its
nearness to the heaven of its choice, this gust of brutal desire

seemed the most noble of aspirations. In a second he lived again
through all these moments, and then all the pathos of his failure

presented itself to him with such vividness that there was a suspicion
of tears in his tone when he said almost unthinkingly, "My God! I did

love you!"
She seemed touched by the emotion of his voice. Her lips quivered a

little, and she made one faltering step towards him, putting out her
hands in a beseeching gesture, when she perceived, just in time, that

being absorbed by the tragedy of his life he had absolutely forgotten
her very existence. She stopped, and her outstretched arms fell

slowly. He, with his features distorted by the bitterness of his
thought, saw neither her movement nor her gesture. He stamped his foot

in vexation, rubbed his head--then exploded.
"What the devil am I to do now?"

He was still again. She seemed to understand, and moved to the door
firmly.

"It's very simple--I'm going," she said aloud.
At the sound of her voice he gave a start of surprise, looked at her

wildly, and asked in a piercing tone--
"You. . . . Where? To him?"

"No--alone--good-bye."
The door-handle rattled under her groping hand as though she had been

trying to get out of some dark place.
"No--stay!" he cried.

She heard him faintly. He saw her shoulder touch the lintel of the
door. She swayed as if dazed. There was less than a second of suspense

while they both felt as if poised on the very edge of moral
annihilation, ready to fall into some devouring nowhere. Then, almost

simultaneously, he shouted, "Come back!" and she let go the handle of
the door. She turned round in peacefuldesperation like one who

deliberately has thrown away the last chance of life; and, for a
moment, the room she faced appeared terrible, and dark, and safe--like

a grave.
He said, very hoarse and abrupt: "It can't end like this. . . . Sit

down;" and while she crossed the room again to the low-backed chair
before the dressing-table, he opened the door and put his head out to

look and listen. The house was quiet. He came back pacified, and
asked--

"Do you speak the truth?"
She nodded.