Bertie looked across at her doubtfully, then put his spoon into the excellent white soup before him. It was the first time for some weeks that they had dined alone together, and conversation did not flow freely. Bertie looked up again, fixing his eyes, not on her face, but on the row of pearls at her throat. “My dear, you will be very much shocked.” “Yes?” said Judith interrogatively, eating her soup. “Reuben Sachs is dead.” “It is not true,” said Judith, and then she actually smiled. * * * * * The room was whirling round and round, a strange, thick mist was over everything, and through it came the muffled sound of Bertie’s voice: “It occurred this afternoon, quite suddenly. I heard it at the club. He had not been well for some time, and had collapsed more or less the last week. But no one had any idea of danger. It seems that his heart was weak; he had been overdoing himself terribly, and cardiac disease was the immediate cause of his death--cardiac disease,” repeated Bertie, with mournful enjoyment of the phrase, and pulling a long face as he spoke. Judith, sitting there like an automaton, eating something that tasted like sawdust, something that was difficult to swallow, was vividly conscious of only this--that Bertie must be silenced at any cost. Anything else could be borne, but not Bertie’s fluent regrets. Another woman would have fainted: there had never been any mercy for her: but at least she would not sit there while Bertie talked of it. So she lifted up her face, her stony face, and turned the current of his talk. * * * * * Dinner came to an end at last and the automatic woman passed across to the sitting-room. Her husband followed her; she stared at him. “You must take my excuses to Blanche. It is due to my family that I should not appear to-night in public.” “Certainly, certainly; a mark of respect, Blanche will understand. We will neither of us go.” She looked at him in horror, all her force of will gathered to a point: “Go--go! Blanche will expect it. There is no reason for you to stop here.” “My dear girl, do you think I can’t stand an evening alone with you? It will be a change, quite a pleasant change.” * * * * * He had gone at last, and she stood there motionless by the mantelpiece, staring at the card for Lady Kemys’ “At home.” “Infinite æons” seemed to divide the present moment from that other moment, half an hour ago, when she had told herself carelessly, indifferently, that she would meet Reuben that night. It struck her now that all the sorrow of her life, all the suffering she had undergone would be wiped out, would be as nothing, if only she could indeed meet Reuben--could see his face, hear his voice, touch his hand. Everything else looked trivial, imaginary; everything else could have been forgotten, forgiven; only this thing could never be forgiven him, this inconceivable thing--that he was dead.