We were nearing New London when she pointed to one of her bags and asked me if I would mind opening it. I welcomed the request as indicating a return of friendliness. Having extracted a parcel of sandwiches, she unfolded the napkin in which they were wrapped and held them out to me. I took a pâté de foie-gras and followed her example in nibbling it. On my own responsibility I summoned the porter and asked him to bring a bottle of spring-water and two glasses. "I guess the old lady's feelin' some better," he confided, when he had carried out the order. We stopped at New London, and went on again. Having eaten three or four sandwiches, I declined any more, folding the remainder in the napkin and stowing them away. The simple meal we had shared together restored something of our old-time confidence. "I'm going to do it," she sighed, as I put the bag back in its place. "He's--he's somewhere on the train--in the smoking-car, I suppose. He's--he's not to come for me till--till we're getting near the Back Bay Station in Boston." I brought out my question simply, though I had been pondering it for some time. "Who'll tell Mr. Brokenshire?" She moved uncomfortably. "I don't know. I haven't made any arrangements. He's in Newport for one or two nights, seeing to some small changes in the house. I--I had to take the opportunity while he was away." As if with a sudden inspiration she glanced round from staring out into the dark. "Would you do it?" I shook my head. "I couldn't. I've never seen a man struck dead, and--" She swung her chair so as to face me more directly. "Why," she asked, trembling--"why do you say that?" "Because, if I told him, it's what I should have to look on at." She began wringing her hands. "Oh no, you wouldn't." "But I should. It would be his death-sentence at the least. It's true he has probably received that already--" "Oh, what are you saying? What are you talking about?" "Only of what every one can see. He's a stricken man--you've told me so yourself." "Yes, but I said it only about Hugh. Lots of men have to go through troubles on account of their children." "But when they do they can generally get comfort from their wives." She seemed to stiffen. "It's not my fault if he can't." "No, of course not. But the fact remains that he doesn't--and perhaps it's the greatest fact of all. He adores you. His children may give him a great deal of anxiety but that's the sort of thing any father looks for and can endure. Only you're not his child; you're his wife. Moreover, you're the wife whom he worships with a slavish idolatry. Everything that nature and time and the world and wealth have made of him he gathers together and lays it down at your feet, contented if you'll only give him back a smile. You may think it pitiful--" She shuddered. "I think it terrible--for me."