“No,” said Judith, lifting her eyes, “it is no good.” Then she went over to the door and shut it. She sat down on the edge of her little white bed, supporting one knee with a smooth, solid arm, while she stared into vacancy. Nothing had happened--nothing; yet henceforward life would wear a different face for her and she knew it. It was impossible any longer to deceive himself. Her wide, vacant eyes saw nothing, but her mental vision, grown suddenly acute, was confronted by a thronging array of images. Yes, she was beginning to see it all now; dimly and slowly indeed at first, but with ever increasing clearness as she gazed; to see how it had all been from the beginning; how slowly and surely this thing had grown about her life; how in the night a silent foe had undermined the citadel. She had been caught, snared in a fine, strong net of woven hair, this young, strong creature. Her strength mocked her in the clinging, subtle toils. She got up from the bed slowly, stiffly, and stood again upright in the middle of the room. Forced into a position alien to her whole nature, to the very essence of her decorous, law-abiding soul, it was impossible that she should not seek to strike a blow in her own behalf. “It is no good,” Rose had said, and she had echoed the words. She did not put her thought into words, but her heart cried out in sudden rebellion, “Why was it no good?” She went over mentally almost every incident in her intercourse with Reuben; saw how from day to day, from month to month, from year to year they had been drawn closer together in ever strengthening, ever tightening bonds. She remembered his voice, his eyes, his face--his near face--as she had heard and seen them a few short hours ago. The conventions, the disguises, which she had been taught to regard as the only realities, fell down suddenly before the living reality of this thing which had grown up between her and Reuben. She recognized in it a living creature, wonderful, mysterious, beautiful and strong, with all the rights of its existence. It was impossible that they who had given it breath should do violence to it, should stain their hands with its blood--it was impossible. She stood there still, her head lifted up, glowing with a strange exultation as her pride re-asserted itself. Opposite was a mirror, a three-sided toilet mirror, hung against the wall, and suddenly Judith caught sight of her own reflected face with its wild eyes and flushed cheeks; her face which was usually so calm. Calm? Had she ever been calm, save with the false calmness which narcotic drugs bestow? She was frightened of herself, of her own daring, of the wild, strange thoughts and feelings which struggled for mastery within her. There is nothing more terrible, more tragic than this ignorance of a woman of her own nature, her own possibilities, her own passions. She covered her face with her hands, and in the darkness the thoughts came crowding (was it thought, or vision, or feeling?).