amongst people of our position is disastrous for the morality--a fatal

influence--don't you see--upon the general tone of the class--very
important--the most important, I verily believe, in--in the

community. I feel this--profoundly. This is the broad view. In time
you'll give me . . . when you become again the woman I loved--and

trusted. . . ."
He stopped short, as though unexpectedly suffocated, then in a

completely changed voice said, "For I did love and trust you"--and
again was silent for a moment. She put her handkerchief to her eyes.

"You'll give me credit for--for--my motives. It's mainly loyalty
to--to the larger conditions of our life--where you--you! of all

women--failed. One doesn't usually talk like this--of course--but in
this case you'll admit . . . And consider--the innocent suffer with

the guilty. The world is pitiless in its judgments. Unfortunately
there are always those in it who are only too eager to misunderstand.

Before you and before my conscience I am guiltless, but any--any
disclosure would impair my usefulness in the sphere--in the larger

sphere in which I hope soon to . . . I believe you fully shared my
views in that matter--I don't want to say any more . . . on--on that

point--but, believe me, true unselfishness is to bear one's burdens
in--in silence. The ideal must--must be preserved--for others, at

least. It's clear as daylight. If I've a--a loathsome sore, to
gratuitously display it would be abominable--abominable! And often in

life--in the highest conception of life--outspokenness in certain
circumstances is nothing less than criminal. Temptation, you know,

excuses no one. There is no such thing really if one looks steadily to
one's welfare--which is grounded in duty. But there are the weak."

. . . His tone became ferocious for an instant . . . "And there are
the fools and the envious--especially for people in our position. I am

guiltless of this terrible--terrible . . . estrangement; but if there
has been nothing irreparable." . . . Something gloomy, like a deep

shadow passed over his face. . . . "Nothing irreparable--you see even
now I am ready to trust you implicitly--then our duty is clear."

He looked down. A change came over his expression and straightway from
the outwardimpetus of his loquacity he passed into the dull

contemplation of all the appeasing truths that, not without some
wonder, he had so recently been able to discover within himself.

During this profound and soothing communion with his innermost beliefs
he remained staring at the carpet, with a portentously solemn face and

with a dull vacuity of eyes that seemed to gaze into the blankness of
an empty hole. Then, without stirring in the least, he continued:

"Yes. Perfectly clear. I've been tried to the utmost, and I can't
pretend that, for a time, the old feelings--the old feelings are

not. . . ." He sighed. . . . "But I forgive you. . . ."
She made a slight movement without uncovering her eyes. In his

profound scrutiny of the carpet he noticed nothing. And there was
silence, silence within and silence without, as though his words had

stilled the beat and tremor of all the surrounding life, and the house
had stood alone--the only dwelling upon a deserted earth.

He lifted his head and repeatedsolemnly:
"I forgive you . . . from a sense of duty--and in the hope . . ."

He heard a laugh, and it not only interrupted his words but also
destroyed the peace of his self-absorption with the vile pain of a

reality intruding upon the beauty of a dream. He couldn't understand
whence the sound came. He could see, foreshortened, the tear-stained,

dolorous face of the woman stretched out, and with her head thrown
over the back of the seat. He thought the piercing noise was a

delusion. But another shrill peal followed by a deep sob and
succeeded by another shriek of mirth positively seemed to tear him out

from where he stood. He bounded to the door. It was closed. He turned
the key and thought: that's no good. . . . "Stop this!" he cried, and

perceived with alarm that he could hardly hear his own voice in the
midst of her screaming. He darted back with the idea of stifling that

unbearable noise with his hands, but stood still distracted, finding
himself as unable to touch her as though she had been on fire. He

shouted, "Enough of this!" like men shout in the tumult of a riot,
with a red face and starting eyes; then, as if swept away before

another burst of laughter, he disappeared in a flash out of three
looking-glasses, vanished suddenly from before her. For a time the

woman gasped and laughed at no one in the luminousstillness of the
empty room.

He reappeared, striding at her, and with a tumbler of water in his
hand. He stammered: "Hysterics--Stop--They will hear--Drink this."

She laughed at the ceiling. "Stop this!" he cried. "Ah!"
He flung the water in her face, putting into the action all the secret

brutality of his spite, yet still felt that it would have been
perfectly excusable--in any one--to send the tumbler after the water.

He restrained himself, but at the same time was so convinced nothing
could stop the horror of those mad shrieks that, when the first

sensation of relief came, it did not even occur to him to doubt the
impression of having become suddenly deaf. When, next moment, he

became sure that she was sitting up, and really very quiet, it was as
though everything--men, things, sensations, had come to a rest. He was

prepared to be grateful. He could not take his eyes off her, fearing,
yet unwilling to admit, the possibility of her beginning again; for,

the experience, however contemptuously he tried to think of it, had
left the bewilderment of a mysteriousterror. Her face was streaming

with water and tears; there was a wisp of hair on her forehead,
another stuck to her cheek; her hat was on one side, undecorously

tilted; her soaked veil resembled a sordid rag festooning her
forehead. There was an utter unreserve in her aspect, an abandonment

of safeguards, that ugliness of truth which can only be kept out of
daily life by unremitting care for appearances. He did not know why,

looking at her, he thought suddenly of to-morrow, and why the thought
called out a deep feeling of unutterable, discouraged weariness--a

fear of facing the succession of days. To-morrow! It was as far as
yesterday. Ages elapsed between sunrises--sometimes. He scanned her

features like one looks at a forgotten country. They were not
distorted--he recognized landmarks, so to speak; but it was only a

resemblance that he could see, not the woman of yesterday--or was it,
perhaps, more than the woman of yesterday? Who could tell? Was it

something new? A new expression--or a new shade of expression? or
something deep--an old truth unveiled, a fundamental and hidden

truth--some unnecessary, accursed certitude? He became aware that he
was trembling very much, that he had an empty tumbler in his

hand--that time was passing. Still looking at her with lingering
mistrust he reached towards the table to put the glass down and was

startled to feel it apparently go through the wood. He had missed the
edge. The surprise, the slight jingling noise of the accident annoyed

him beyond expression. He turned to her irritated.
"What's the meaning of this?" he asked, grimly.

She passed her hand over her face and made an attempt to get up.
"You're not going to be absurd again," he said. "'Pon my soul, I did

not know you could forget yourself to that extent." He didn't try to
conceal his physicaldisgust, because he believed it to be a purely

moral reprobation of every unreserve, of anything in the nature of a
scene. "I assure you--it was revolting," he went on. He stared for a

moment at her. "Positively degrading," he added with insistence.
She stood up quickly as if moved by a spring and tottered. He started

forward instinctively. She caught hold of the back of the chair and
steadied herself. This arrested him, and they faced each other

wide-eyed, uncertain, and yet coming back slowly to the reality of
things with relief and wonder, as though just awakened after tossing

through a long night of fevered dreams.
"Pray, don't begin again," he said, hurriedly, seeing her open her

lips. "I deserve some little consideration--and such unaccountable
behaviour is painful to me. I expect better things. . . . I have the

right. . . ."
She pressed both her hands to her temples.

"Oh, nonsense!" he said, sharply. "You are perfectlycapable of
coming down to dinner. No one should even suspect; not even the

servants. No one! No one! . . . I am sure you can."
She dropped her arms; her face twitched. She looked straight into his

eyes and seemed incapable of pronouncing a word. He frowned at her.
"I--wish--it," he said, tyrannically. "For your own sake also. . . ."

He meant to carry that point without any pity. Why didn't she speak?
He feared passiveresistance. She must. . . . Make her come. His frown

deepened, and he began to think of some effectual violence, when most
unexpectedly she said in a firm voice, "Yes, I can," and clutched the

chair-back again. He was relieved, and all at once her attitude ceased
to interest him. The important thing was that their life would begin