"Yes, I know. I'm sorry you didn't find out." It was impossible. Something impossible was happening. Of course, he had known it would happen. But he had fooled himself. A clever thing to do. He was talking like a little boy reciting a piece from a platform. "I've come back to you because everything but you has died. I begin with the end of what I have to say. I came back from Europe ... because I wanted you...." She interrupted. "I wrote you a letter when I found out about her. I sent it to New York." "I never got it." "I'm sorry." Quite a formal procedure thus far. A letter had miscarried. One could blame the mails for that. And a divorce. Yes, that was formal too ... "whereas the complainant further alleges ..." He felt that his legs were trembling. If he spoke again his voice would be unsteady. He did not want that. But someone had to speak. Not she. She could be silent. "Anna"--let his voice shake. Perhaps it would help matters. "You've changed...." "Yes, Erik...." "I haven't much right to ask for anything else...." Why in God's name could he think clearly and yet only talk like a blithering fool? He would pause and gather his wits. But then he would start making a speech ... four-score and seven years ago our forefathers.... "I'm sorry you came, Erik...." This couldn't be Anna. He closed his mouth and stared. A dream full of noises, voices, Anna saying: "We mustn't waste time regretting or worrying each other about things.... It's much too late now." He wanted to say. "It is impossible that you do not love me because you once loved me, because we once lay in each other's arms ... seven years." But there was no Anna to say that to. Instead, a stranger-woman. An impulse carried him away. He was kneeling beside her, burying his face in her lap. It didn't matter. There was no one to see. Perhaps her hand would move gently over his hair. No, she was sitting straight. Still alone with something. She was saying: "I'm sorry. Please, Erik, don't." "I love you." "No. No! Please, let's talk...." He raised his face. It was easier now that he was crying. He wouldn't have to be grammatical ... or finish sentences. "I understand, Erik. I was afraid of this. For you. But you mustn't. 'Shh! it's all over." "No, Anna. It can't be. You are still Anna." "Yes. But different." He stood up. "Really, Erik," she was shaking her head and smiling without expression, "everything is over. I would rather have written it to you. I could have made it plain. But I didn't know where to reach you." He let her talk on and stood staring. Her face was limp. There was nothing there. He was looking at a corpse. Not of her, but somehow of himself. There in her eyes he lay dead--an obliteration. He had come back to a part of him that had died. It was buried where one couldn't see, somewhere behind her eyes. "I have nothing more to say, Erik. But you must understand what I have said. Because it means everything."