If she had asked this question an hour ago, before she told him her horrible suspicions, he would readily have answered, "For me." As it was, such an answer would have seemed flippant, profane. But an answer of some kind must be made. He could find no answer, and said merely, "Give me time." She sat upright on her chair. One hand and arm rested on the table, the white hand lying open upon the leaf, the thumb holding on by the edge. Her head and face were thrust forward, her chin projecting, the forehead reclining. Her eyes, wide open, followed him closely, intently, but not eagerly. She seemed curious, more than anxious. It was as though she took but a reflected interest in the question, although the reply might govern her action. She waited for him patiently. He was a long time before he spoke. "Marion," he said at length, "if I am to be of any use to you--if even my advice is to be of service to you--I must know all--all, without reserve of any kind. On the face of it, your question is absurd. Supposing you had no code--no religious feeling in the matter; suppose you had no fear or hope of the other world, what earthly good could come of your doing violence to yourself?--of your throwing away your life suddenly?" While he was saying this, he continued to walk up and down the room, with his eyes bent on the floor. Her eyes had continued to follow him in the same close, intent way. Still they lacked eagerness. She was a pupil anxious to know--not an enthusiast impatient to act. "It would," she answered, with no trace of emotion, "close up his grave for ever, and give peace to his name." "Your husband's--your husband's grave and name! Come, Marion, let us be frank." "In what am I uncandid?" "You did not--you swore at the inquest you did not--love your husband, and now you are talking of killing yourself for his sake. Marion, you cannot hold such words candid." He paused in his walk, and stood before her. He looked at her a moment, and then averted his gaze. Her eyes, although they rested intelligently on him, did not appear to identify him. They were the eyes of one occupied with the solution of a mental problem, aided by formula of which he was merely the source. "Thomas Blake," she said, "I once thought you might grow to understand me, and then I came to the conclusion you never could. You are now further off than ever. Louis Davenport was my husband, and I belonged to him. I belong to him still. I swore--as they were good enough to remind me at the inquest--to love, honour, and obey him. I did not come to love him as women love their husbands, but my feeling towards him was whole and loyal. I was his, and I am his; and if my death, now that he is dead, can benefit him or comfort his name with quiet, I am willing to die. Do not be alarmed. I shall make no unpleasantness here. Do you think I am in the way of his rest?" "Marion, you are talking pure nonsense. Why, your feelings as a Christian alone----"