She had gone away before Richard could get up and come to her. She wanted to be back in her house by herself. She had pushed open the French windows of the study to breathe the air of the garden and see the tall sycamore growing deep into the thick blue night. Half the room, reflected on the long pane, was thrown out into the garden. She saw it thinning away, going off from the garden into another space, existing there with an unearthly reality of its own. She had sat down at last, too tired to go upstairs, and had found herself crying, incredibly crying; all the misery, all the fear, all the boredom of her life gathered together and discharging now. "If I could get out of it all"--Her crying stopped with a start as if somebody had come in and put a hand on her shoulder. Everything went still. She had a sense of happiness and peace suddenly there with her in the room. Not so much her own as the happiness and peace of an immense, invisible, intangible being of whose life she was thus aware. She knew, somehow through It, that there was no need to get away; she was out of it all now, this minute. There was always a point where she could get out of it and into this enduring happiness and peace. VII. They were talking to-night about Richard and his wife. They said he wasn't happy; he wasn't in love with her. He never had been; she knew it; yet she took him, and tied him to her, an old woman, older than Richard, with grey hair. Oh well--she had had to wait for him longer than he waited for me, and she's in love with him still. She's making it impossible for him to see me. Then I shan't see him. I don't want him to see me if it hurts her. I don't want her to be hurt. I wonder if she knows? _They_ know. I can hear them talking about me when I've gone. ..."Mary Olivier, the woman who translated Euripides." ..."Mary Olivier, the woman Nicholson discovered." ..."Mary Olivier, the woman who was Nicholson's mistress." Richard's mistress--I know that's what they say, but I can't feel that they're saying it about _me_. It must be somebody else, some woman I never heard of. VIII. Mr. Sutcliffe is dead. He died two weeks ago at Agaye. I can see now how beautiful they were; how beautiful he was, going away like that, letting her take him away so that the sight of me shouldn't hurt her. I can see that what I thought so ugly was really beautiful, their sticking to each other through it all, his faithfulness and her forgiveness, their long life of faithfulness and forgiveness. But my short life with Richard was beautiful too; my coming to him and leaving him free. I shall never go back on that; I shall never be sorry for it.