She let her hands fall by her side. “I cannot bear it any more,” she said quickly; “perhaps we had better separate; these constant scenes will kill me. You must permit me to retire; I cannot bear any more”—and she walked slowly away into the little drawing-room, and shut the door. She went up to the glass, and looked at her own face, long and sadly; she put her wrists together, and looked at them hopelessly. “Oh, I am old!” she cried, with a shiver; “I am old!”—and she sat down on the gaunt chair by the fireplace, still and silent, till cold and misery numbed her, and all things were alike. Presently, she heard his footsteps; he had left the dining-room, and seemed to be going towards the front door; she raised her head and listened. He hesitated, turned back, and entered the drawing-room. He stood for a moment on the threshold and looked round the little room—at the hard, old-fashioned sofa, at the corner cupboard with the pot-pourri on it, the jingling piano, the chair on which she sat. He remembered the day of his interview with Florence, and afterwards with Aunt Anne, and he looked at the latter now half doubtfully. She did not move an inch as he entered, or raise her eyes. “Anne!” There was no answer. She turned a little more directly away from him. “Anne,” he said, “we had better make it up. It is no good quarrelling.” “You were very cruel to me, Alfred,” she said, with gentle indignation; “you forgot everything that was due to me. You frequently do.” “I cannot always be remembering what is due to you, Anne. It irritates me.” “But you cut me to the quick. I sometimes wonder whether you have any affection at all for me.” “Don’t be foolish,” he said, with an effort that was rather obvious; “and don’t let us quarrel. I dislike poverty—it makes me cross.” “I can understand that,” she said, “but I cannot understand your being cruel to me.” “I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he answered; “we had better forget it.” She stood up and faced him, timidly, but with a slight flush in her face. “You said I was old; you taunted me with it; you often taunt me,” she said indignantly. “Well, but I knew it before we were married.” “Yes, you knew it before we were married,” she repeated. “Then I couldn’t have minded it so much, could I?” he said, with a softer tone in his voice, though it grated still. “No, my love”—and she tried to smile, but it was a sad attempt. “Well, is it all right?” he asked. “We won’t quarrel any more.” “Yes, my love, it is all right,” she said lovingly, and, half doubtfully, she put up her face to his. Involuntarily he drew back again, but he recovered in an instant and forced himself to stoop and kiss her forehead. “There,” he said, “it’s all right. To-morrow you shall go to London, and we will be more sensible in future.” He touched her hand, and went out into the garden. When she had watched him out of sight, she sat down once more on the chair by the fire.