He went at once into the study. Anne was sitting there in her chair by the hearth. Her hat and jacket were thrown on the writing-table that stood near in the middle of the room. She rose as he came in, but made no advance to meet him. He stood still for a moment by the closed door, and they held each other with their eyes. "I didn't expect you till to-morrow." "I sent a telegram," she said. "If you'd sent it to the office I'd have met you." "I didn't want anybody to meet me." He felt that her words had some reference to their loss, and to the sadness of her home-coming. A sigh broke from him; but he was unaware that he had sighed. He sat down, not in his accustomed seat by the hearth, opposite to hers, but in a nearer chair by the writing-table. He saw that she had been writing letters. He pushed them away and turned his chair round so as to face her. His heart ached looking at her. There were deep lines on her forehead; and she was very pale, even her small close mouth had no colour in it. She kept her sad eyes half hidden under their drooping lids. Her lips were tightly compressed, her narrow nostrils white and pinched. It was a face in which all the doors of life were closing; where the inner life went on tensely, secretly, behind the closing doors. "Well," he said, "I'm very glad you've come back." "Walter--have you any idea why I went away?" "Why you went? Obviously, it was the best thing you could do." "It was the only thing I could do. And I am glad I did it. My mind has become clearer." "_I_ see. I thought it would." "It would not have been clear if I had stayed." "No," he said vaguely, "of course it wouldn't." "I've seen," she continued, "that there is nothing for me but to come back. It is the right thing." "Did you doubt it?" "Yes. I even doubted whether it were possible--whether, in the circumstances, I could bear to come back, to stay--" "Do you mean--to--the house?" "No. I mean--to you." He turned away. "I understand," he said. "So it came to that?" "Yes. It came to that. I've been here three hours; and up to the last hour, I was not sure whether I would not pack the rest of my things and go away. I had written a letter to you. There it is, under your arm." "Am I to read it?" "Yes." He turned his back on her, and read the letter. "I see. You say here you want a separation. If you want it you shall have it. But hadn't you better hear what I have to say, _first_?" "I've come back for that. What have you to say?" He bowed his head upon his breast. "Not very much, I'm afraid. Except that I'm sorry--and ashamed of myself--and--I ask your forgiveness. What more can I say?" "What more indeed? I'm to understand, then, that everything I was told is true?" "It _was_ true." "And is not now?" "No. Whoever told you, omitted to tell you that." "You mean you have given up living with this woman?" "Yes. If you call it living with her." "You have given it up--for how long?"