“But you didn’t go to him,” he took up in the same tone. “How far did you go? What made you come back?” “I didn’t know myself,” she murmured. Nothing of her moved but her lips. He fixed her sternly. “Did he expect this? Was he waiting for you?” he asked. She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to look at her for a good while without making a sound. Then, at last-- “And I suppose he is waiting yet?” he asked, quickly. Again she seemed to nod at him. For some reason he felt he must know the time. He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-past seven. “Is he?” he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket. He looked up at her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a short, harsh laugh, directly repressed. “No! It’s the most unheard! . . .” he mumbled while she stood before him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought. He laughed again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation. He did not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the facts of existence--for facts in general--such an immense disgust at the thought of all the many days already lived through. He was wearied. Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength. He said-- “You deceived me--now you make a fool of him . . . It’s awful! Why?” “I deceived myself!” she exclaimed. “Oh! Nonsense!” he said, impatiently. “I am ready to go if you wish it,” she went on, quickly. “It was due to you--to be told--to know. No! I could not!” she cried, and stood still wringing her hands stealthily. “I am glad you repented before it was too late,” he said in a dull tone and looking at his boots. “I am glad . . . some spark of better feeling,” he muttered, as if to himself. He lifted up his head after a moment of brooding silence. “I am glad to see that there is some sense of decency left in you,” he added a little louder. Looking at her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out-- “After all, I loved you. . . .” “I did not know,” she whispered. “Good God!” he cried. “Why do you imagine I married you?” The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered her. “Ah--why?” she said through her teeth. He appeared overcome with horror, and watched her lips intently as though in fear. “I imagined many things,” she said, slowly, and paused. He watched, holding his breath. At last she went on musingly, as if thinking aloud, “I tried to understand. I tried honestly. . . . Why? . . . To do the usual thing--I suppose. . . . To please yourself.” He walked away smartly, and when he came back, close to her, he had a flushed face. “You seemed pretty well pleased, too--at the time,” he hissed, with scathing fury. “I needn’t ask whether you loved me.” “I know now I was perfectly incapable of such a thing,” she said, calmly, “If I had, perhaps you would not have married me.” “It’s very clear I would not have done it if I had known you--as I know you now.”