“You’ve seen a leaf on the road before the wind. Well, I’m like a leaf on a road—the open road of life. A dry, shrivelled leaf before the north-east wind. The wind’s pitiless—devils the wretched leaf from pillar to post, never gives it a second’s rest. And the road’s open, and the leaf . . . can’t get away. . . .” There was a long silence. At length— “Why,” said Peregrine hoarsely, “why can’t the leaf get away?” Joan threw up her hands. “I knew you’d say that,” she said. “It does seem strange, doesn’t it—that the leaf shouldn’t be able to get away? Well, Perry, you’ll hardly believe me, but it’s a matter of pluck. The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out. _But I can’t do it._” “D’you mean . . . you love him?” “‘Love him?’” cried Joan. “Does the leaf love the north-east wind? Of course, it’s different for you because you’re a man. Women can be very trying, but they can’t reduce men to pulp. So you can’t put yourself in my place. But if you were a slave and your master had given you hell day in day out for five long, frightful years—well, d’you think you’d love him, Perry?” Peregrine stared upon the ground. “Have you—a child?” he said. Joan shook her head. “Has he control of your fortune?” “Not a cent. I tell you,” she added wildly, “the door’s open.” “Steady, dear, steady. . . . Tell me, d’you feel—d’you feel you oughtn’t to leave him? I mean . . . D’you feel it’s your job to stay—because you’re his wife?” “No, indeed,” cried the girl. “I feel it’s my job not—not to go to anyone else. It sounds rather out-of-date, but I’ve got old-fashioned views. He’s my husband: and neither time nor distance can alter that. But I don’t feel bound to stay with him—until he sends me mad. Would you feel bound . . . Perry?” “Good God, no!” The man flung out the words. “As you say, you needn’t. . . . Besides, I should think you’re fed up with men. I—I should be.” Joan winced. “Give me my freedom. . . . I’d only get into a hole—some wretched, back-stair lodging in some tiny place where I could sit and read. I’d have one servant, and I’d potter about the streets. I wouldn’t want any excitement—I’d ’ve had enough of that.” He laughed bitterly. “I only want”—he swallowed and corrected his tense—“I’d only want peace, Joan.” The girl nodded her head. “I knew you’d understand, Perry.” The man sat back in his chair. “The door’s open, Joan. Why can’t you walk out?” “Because,” said the girl slowly, “because I haven’t the nerve.” She paused there, wide-eyed, as though plunged in bitter meditation. After a moment she continued absently. “There’s nothing on earth to stop me, but I know that for me to leave him would be _against his will_, and I can’t stand up against that.” “But he needn’t know, Joan. You can just fade away and never see him again.”