Helen’s eyes had met him far down the walk. They followed him until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Then, as if she had received some dreadful warning from within, she pressed her hand to her breast, her lips unfolded, her cheeks blanched, her eyes widened as if she beheld the very face of fear. What was this? George was not like himself. She was aware of some frightful change in him. There was a flare about him, something feverish, disheveled in his apparent neatness. She began to think over this day, his unexpected return that morning. Now that she came to think of it, there was no train upon which he could have arrived at that hour. His reserve, it was a fortification. She realized that now. She sprang up, started for the house. Something had happened, something horrible. What was it? She must see George. She must touch him, speak to him. She found him seated on the veranda with the afternoon paper spread before him, held up so that she could see only the top of his head, not his face. She stood struggling with herself. She wished to run to him, fling herself upon his breast and cry out: “George, what has happened? Do you love me? I am your wife. Kiss me.” Never had she felt like this, the nameless terror, the beating of her heart like hammers in her breast. And all in this maddening moment, she realized that she dared not approach him. He did not feel like a husband, but like a stranger who did not belong in this house. She stood leaning against the spindle-legged pillar of the veranda and waited. She did not know for what, but as if she expected a blow. And she wanted it to fall. She wished to be put out of this pain as soon as possible. Cutter laid aside his paper, stood up, swept a glance this way and that as if he could not decide which way to retreat, then he went inside, and affected to be looking for a book on the shelves in the parlor. He heard Helen pass down the hall, knew that she had halted a moment in the doorway. He felt as if he was being trailed. What he wished was that she would have dinner, so that he could get through with this business. It must be done after dinner, because he could not sit down to the table with her afterward. She came back presently to fetch him to this meal. She wanted to cling on his arm, as she used to do years ago. But he evaded her, she could not have told how, only that if he had shouted to her not to touch him, she would not have been surer of what he meant. They accomplished this dinner together. Cutter keeping his eyes withdrawn from her, taking his food with that sort of foreign correctness which a man never practices at his own table. Many times they had passed through a meal in silence, but not a silence like this, potential, strained. Once Cutter caught sight of Helen’s hand, which was trembling. But he spared himself the sight of her face.