Misery sat in his face, misery and a hardness as of iron. He often looked stern, often looked tired, but now it seemed as if it was of life that he was tired, and his whole face was inflexible and inexorable. It was not the sort of misery that could break down and sob itself into acquiescence, it was the misery of the soul into which the iron has entered. And mother and son looked at each other long without speaking, he with that face and soul of iron, she with a hundred terrors winnowing her. He had not given her any greeting, nor she him. Then she clasped her hands together in speechless entreaty, and held them out to him. But still he said nothing, and it was she who spoke first. "Philip, what is it?" she said. "Whatever it is, tell me quickly, my dear. I can bear to know anything. I cannot bear not to." He looked away from her for a moment, striking the gravel with his stick. "Madge?" said Mrs. Home. "Is she dead?" Yet even as she spoke she knew it was not that. That, even that, would not have made Philip like this. He would have come to her to be comforted; it was not comfort that he asked for. "No, she is not dead," he said. "I wish she was. She has betrayed me and thrown me over. She is probably by this time married to Evelyn Dundas!" He paused a moment. "That is what has happened," he said; "and, here to you and now, mother, I curse them both. I met them together yesterday, I cursed them to their faces. There is nothing I will not do that can damage them in any way. I will ruin him if I can, and I will wait long for my vengeance if need be. I tried to forgive them, I tried to go to the house and tell them so, but I could not. I don't forgive them, and if for that reason God does not forgive me what I have done amiss, I don't care. I would forgive them if I could; I can't. If that is wrong I can't help it. It is better you should know this at once. I am sorry if it hurts you, but there is no manner of use in my trying to 'break it' to you, as they call it. Break it! It is I who am broken!" Then all the tenderness of maternity, all the years of love between her and Philip, the complete confidence which had forged so strong and golden a chain between them, rose in Mrs. Home's mind and sent to her lips the only answer she could make. Sorrow for him, sympathy with him, of course he took for granted; there was no need to speak of things like these. "Ah, dear Philip, unsay that, unsay that!" she cried. "Whatever happens to one, it is impossible that you should feel that!" He looked at her with the same glooming face.