“I who used to fancy myself unconventional! I must have been born with a card-case in my hand. You should have seen me with that poor woman in the garden. She came to me for help, poor creature, because she fancied that, having ‘sinned,’ as they call it, I might feel some pity for others who had been tempted in the same way. Not I! She didn’t know me. Lady Susan would have been kinder, because Lady Susan wouldn’t have been afraid. I hated the woman--my one thought was not to be seen with her--I could have killed her for guessing my secret. The one thing that mattered to me at that moment was my standing with Lady Susan!” Gannett did not speak. “And you--you’ve felt it too!” she broke out accusingly. “You’ve enjoyed being with these people as much as I have; you’ve let the chaplain talk to you by the hour about ‘The Reign of Law’ and Professor Drummond. When they asked you to hand the plate in church I was watching you--_you wanted to accept.”_ She stepped close, laying her hand on his arm. “Do you know, I begin to see what marriage is for. It’s to keep people away from each other. Sometimes I think that two people who love each other can be saved from madness only by the things that come between them--children, duties, visits, bores, relations--the things that protect married people from each other. We’ve been too close together--that has been our sin. We’ve seen the nakedness of each other’s souls.” She sank again on the sofa, hiding her face in her hands. Gannett stood above her perplexedly: he felt as though she were being swept away by some implacable current while he stood helpless on its bank. At length he said, “Lydia, don’t think me a brute--but don’t you see yourself that it won’t do?” “Yes, I see it won’t do,” she said without raising her head. His face cleared. “Then we’ll go to-morrow.” “Go--where?” “To Paris; to be married.” For a long time she made no answer; then she asked slowly, “Would they have us here if we were married?” “Have us here?” “I mean Lady Susan--and the others.” “Have us here? Of course they would.” “Not if they knew--at least, not unless they could pretend not to know.” He made an impatient gesture. “We shouldn’t come back here, of course; and other people needn’t know--no one need know.” She sighed. “Then it’s only another form of deception and a meaner one. Don’t you see that?” “I see that we’re not accountable to any Lady Susans on earth!” “Then why are you ashamed of what we are doing here?” “Because I’m sick of pretending that you’re my wife when you’re not--when you won’t be.” She looked at him sadly. “If I were your wife you’d have to go on pretending. You’d have to pretend that I’d never been--anything else. And our friends would have to pretend that they believed what you pretended.” Gannett pulled off the sofa-tassel and flung it away. “You’re impossible,” he groaned.