To her own surprise, she felt no dread now. Only a great weariness. What could she say? What was she to say? All seemed useless—not worth while. But then there was David’s face, his grey, old face. She must do her best—not for her own sake, but for David’s. She wondered a little that it should hurt him so much. It was not as though he loved her, or had ever loved her. Only of course this was a thing to cut a man, down to the very quick of his pride and his self-respect. It was that—of course it was that. Whilst she was thinking, David spoke. He was standing by the table fingering the piece of string that lay there. “Elizabeth, do you know why you fainted?” he said. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, and said no more. A sort of shudder passed over David Blake. “Then it’s true,” he said in a voice that was hardly a voice at all. There was a sound, and there were words. But it was not like a man speaking. It was like a long, quick breath of pain. “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “It is true, David.” There was a very great pity in her eyes. “Oh, my God!” said David, and he sat down by the table and put his head in his hands. “Oh, my God!” he said again. Elizabeth got up. She was trembling just a little, but she felt no faintness now. She put one hand on the mantelpiece, and so stood, waiting. There was a very long silence, one of those profound silences which seem to break in upon a room and fill it. They overlie and blot out all the little sounds of every-day life and usage. Outside, people came and went, the traffic in the High Street came and went, but neither to David, nor to Elizabeth, did there come the smallest sound. They were enclosed in a silence that seemed to stretch unbroken, from one Eternity to another. It became an unbearable torment. To his dying day, when any one spoke of hell, David glimpsed a place of eternal silence, where anguish burned for ever with a still unwavering flame. He moved at last, slowly, like a man who has been in a trance. His head lifted. He got up, resting his weight upon his hands. Then he straightened himself. All his movements were like those of a man who is lifting an intolerably heavy load. “Why did you marry me?” he asked in a tired voice, and then his tone hardened. “Who is the man? Who is he? Will he marry you if I divorce you?” An unbearable pang of pity went through Elizabeth, and she turned her head sharply. David stopped looking at her. She to be ashamed—oh, God!—Elizabeth ashamed—he could not look at her. He walked quickly to the window. Then turned back again because Elizabeth was speaking. “David,” she said, in a low voice, “David, what sort of woman am I?” A groan burst from David. “You are a good woman. That’s just the damnable part of it. There are some women, when they do a thing like this, one only says they’ve done after their kind—they’re gone where they belong. When a good woman does it, it’s Hell—just Hell. And you’re a good woman.”