Edouard gave the horrible letter back to Bernard without breathing a word; without breathing a word, Bernard took it. I have said before that they didn’t speak to each other much--a kind of strange, inexplicable constraint weighed upon them when they were alone together. (I confess I don’t like the word “inexplicable” and use it only because I am momentarily at a loss.) But that evening, when they were alone in their room and getting ready to go to bed, Bernard, with a great effort and the words sticking in his throat a little, asked: “I suppose Laura has shown you Douviers’ letter?” “I never doubted that Douviers would take it properly,” said Edouard, getting into bed. “He’s an excellent fellow--a little weak, perhaps, but still excellent. He’ll adore the child, I’m sure. And it’ll certainly be more robust than if it were his own. For he doesn’t strike me as being much of a Hercules.” Bernard was much too fond of Laura not to be shocked by Edouard’s cool way of talking; but he did not let it be seen. “So!” went on Edouard, putting out his candle, “I am glad to see that after all there is to be a satisfactory ending to this affair, which at one time seemed as if it could only lead to despair. Anybody may make a false start; the important thing is not to persist in....” “Evidently,” interrupted Bernard, who wanted to change the subject. “I must confess, Bernard, that I am afraid I have made one with you.” “A false start?” “Yes; I’m afraid so. In spite of all the affection I have for you, I have been thinking for the last few days that we aren’t the sort to understand each other and that ...” (he hesitated a few seconds to find his words) “... staying with me longer would set you on the wrong track.” Bernard had been thinking the same till Edouard spoke; but Edouard could certainly have said nothing more likely to bring Bernard back. The instinct of contradiction carried the day and he protested.