“At first you wanted them,” she reminded him. “But not now. It is better as it is,” he returned moodily. “No; not for me; not for either of us,” she sighed. For the first time in her life she saw tears in his eyes. “For them?” she asked putting out her hand to him. “No, for you,” he answered, drawing back from this hand. She noticed that. Her attitude toward him was one of submission. She did not ask herself now why he shrank from her touch. She knew nothing about the psychology of passion, its strange and merciless revulsions. “A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a pause. “Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller all the time.” He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her. And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed to his fate.... What follies love imposed upon youth! He had loved her and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen? Heaven knew she was made of every virtue. And he had kept his vows to her. He had not actually broken faith with her--yet. He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his mind to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or meet. In view of everything--the vision of life and society, and what was coming to a man of his quality--he regarded it as remarkable that he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic--the kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife! He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled him with irritation, a sort of peevish remorse. He was going to have the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he might regret afterwards. He came back, stepping briskly along the walk, passed her as he would have passed a carpenter’s wife on the street and went on toward the house.