'Good heavens,' said Bruce, looking at his writing-desk, 'if I've spoken of this once I've spoken of it forty times! The inkstand is too full!' 'Oh! I'm so dreadfully sorry,' said Edith, feeling the strangeness of Bruce's want of sense of proportion. He had, as it seemed, to speak to her about some important matter. Yet the inkstand being too full attracted his attention, roused his anger! She remembered he had said these very words the day he came back from his elopement with the art student. Edith looked round the room, while Bruce smoked. And so she had really made up her mind! She _meant_ to leave him! Not that she intended to see Aylmer again now, except once, perhaps, to say good-bye. But still, she really intended to change her whole life when he returned again. She felt rather conscience-stricken, but was glad when she looked at Bruce that there had never been anything as yet but Platonic affection between her and Aylmer, which she could have no cause to blush for before Bruce. And how grateful she felt to Aylmer for his wonderful self-control. Thanks to that, she could look Bruce in the face.... Bruce was speaking. 'Edith,' he said with some agitation, 'I wish to tell you something.' She saw he looked pale and nervous. 'What is it, Bruce?' she asked kindly. 'It's this,' he said in a somewhat pompous tone, 'I am in a very strange condition of health. I find I can no longer endure to live in London; I must get away from the war. The doctor says so. If I'm to keep sane, if I'm not to commit suicide, I must give up this domestic life.' She stared at him. 'Yes, I'm sorry, I've tried to endure it,' he went on. 'I can't stand the responsibility, the anxiety of the children and everything. I'm--I'm going away.' She said nothing, looking at him in silence. 'Yes. I'm going to America. I've taken my passage. I'm going on Friday.... I thought of leaving without telling you, but I decided it was better to be open.' 'But, Bruce, do you mean for a trip?' He stood up and looked at her full in the face. 'No, I don't mean for a trip. I want to live in America.' 'And you don't want me to come too?' 'No, Edith; I can't endure married life any longer. It doesn't suit me. Three years ago I offered you your freedom and you refused to take it; I offer it you again now. You are older, you are perfectly fit to manage your life and the children's without me. I must be free--free to look after my health and to get away from everything!' 'You mean to leave us altogether then?' said Edith, feeling unspeakably thankful. 'Exactly. That's just what I do mean.' 'But will you be happy--comfortable--alone in America?' He walked across the room and came back. 'Edith, I'm sorry to pain you, but I shall not be alone.' Edith started, thinking of Madame Frabelle's letter ... from Liverpool! Evidently they were going away together.