Dominey was conscious once more of that strange and most unexpected fit of emotion. He was unrecognisable even to himself. Never before in his life had his heart beaten as it was beating now. His eyes, too, were hot. He had travelled around the word in search of new things, only to find them in this strange, faded chamber, side by side with this suffering woman. Nevertheless, he said quietly: “We must send you some place where the people are kinder and where life is pleasanter. Perhaps you love music and to see beautiful pictures. I think that we must try and keep you from thinking.” She sighed in a perplexed fashion. “I wish that I could get it out of my blood that I want to kill you. Then you could take me right away. Other married people have lived together and hated each other. Why shouldn't we? We may forget even to hate.” Dominey staggered to his feet, walked to a window, threw it open and leaned out for a moment. Then he closed it and came back. This new element in the situation had been a shock to him. All the time she was watching him composedly. “Well?” she asked, with a strange little smile. “What do you say? Would you like to hold as a wife's the hand which frightened you so last night?” She held it out to him, soft and warm. Her fingers even returned the pressure of his. She looked at him pleasantly, and once more he felt like a man who has wandered into a strange country and has lost his bearings. “I want you so much to be happy,” he said hoarsely, “but you are not strong yet, Rosamund. We cannot decide anything in a hurry.” “How surprised you are to find that I am willing to be nice to you!” she murmured. “But why not? You cannot know why I have so suddenly changed my mind about you--and I have changed it. I have seen the truth these few minutes. There is a reason, Everard, why I should not kill you.” “What is it?” he demanded. She shook her head with all the joy of a child who keeps a secret. “You are clever,” she said. “I will leave you to find it out. I am excited now, and I want you to go away for a little time. Please send Mrs. Unthank to me.” The prospect of release was a strange relief, mingled still more strangely with regret. He lingered over her hand. “If you walk in your sleep to-night, then,” he begged, “you will leave your dagger behind?” “I have told you,” she answered, as though surprised, “that I have abandoned my intention. I shall not kill you. Even though I may walk in my sleep--and sometimes the nights are so long--it will not be your death I seek.” CHAPTER XI