Yes, I was, and I will. Forgive me—I’ll not lose my self-control again. [_There is a short pause during which ROBERTS makes an effort for calmness, and TANNER watches him quietly._] We were married eighteen years ago. She was nineteen, I thirty. We had known each other only a few months. She cared for me then—I know she did—I know it. For a few years there was happiness. There were the boys. She seemed absorbed in them. They were sturdy chaps. Then they went to school. That was five years ago. It was ghastly—not having them. For a long time we had not been much together. I never asked myself if she was happy. She seemed so. I suppose I wasn’t particularly, but I hadn’t time to think about it. I was away a good deal. We never seemed to have much to say to each other. She told me once that never in our whole married life had I asked her what she was thinking about. It only came back to me, afterwards—what she meant, I mean. I suppose she was lonely. [_TANNER bows his head in acquiescence. ROBERTS looks at him and sees he understands._] Well, after the boys went away there came a kind of crisis. Nothing definite. We never said anything to each other about our own situation. Gradually we had become entirely separated. I thought I had better get away. A friend was going to Italy, so I proposed to join him. She urged my going, saying I needed a holiday and that she was perfectly well. I was anxious at first, but her letters came regularly and sounded cheerful. I stayed abroad almost a year, first in Italy and Greece, then to India, then back to Italy. I was in London, wondering whether to come home or go back to the continent, when I heard, not from her, but from an acquaintance I ran into, that she was ill. A great longing came over me to see her—to take care of her. Why had she not told me? What was the matter? I cabled, and sailed at once. A month after I got home she died. TANNER. [_After waiting a moment._] I think I can understand. It’s a pretty tragic story, and, I imagine, not an uncommon one. I fancy among people of our class, silence causes more trouble than speech. May I ask you a question? Did you have any intimate conversation with her before she died—about the past, I mean? ROBERTS. Yes, a little. I think she knew how I loved her. When I got home she said she had been ill, but was better. Shortly after she had a trifling operation from which she didn’t rally. She seemed to want to have me with her—but—I couldn’t hold her—it was too late—too late! TANNER. A strange nature! ROBERTS. When I began to speak it was with the intention and hope of making you do the same. As I think over the past, the difficulties she must have met are clear to me. I have been very dull and blind. Speaking about these things has been a relief. Everything seems plainer to me now. Mr. Tanner, I want to say this to you, if you knew her, if your friendship made her happier, why, I am glad. TANNER.