He blundered after a pause: "Helen, I'm so sorry I've been rather hard on you lately--it's all been a mistake, and I promise--" "You've been down to see Clare!" she interrupted him, with deadly quietness, still watching the fire. He started. Then he knew that he must lie, because he could never explain to her the circumstances in a way that she would not think unsatisfactory. "Helen, I haven't!" he exclaimed, and his indignation sounded sincere, perhaps because his motive in lying was a pure one. She made no answer to that. He went on, more fervently: "I didn't see Clare, Helen! Whatever made you think that?--I just went for a walk along the Deepersdale road--I wanted some exercise, that was all!" She laughed--an awful little coughing laugh. "You went to see Clare," she persisted, turning round and, for the first time, looking him in the eyes. "I followed you, and I saw you go in Clare's house." "You did?" he exclaimed, turning suddenly pale. "Yes. Now what have you got to say?" He was, rather to his own surprise, quite furious with her for having followed him. "I've simply got this to say," he answered, hotly. "You've done no good by following me. You've made me feel I can't trust you, and you've made yourself feel that you can't trust me. You'll never believe the true explanation of why I went to Clare--you'll go on suspecting all sorts of impossible things--you'll worry yourself to death over nothing--and as for me--well, whenever I go out alone I shall wonder if you're following a few hundred yards behind!" Then she said, still with the same tragic brooding quietness: "You needn't fear, Kenneth. I'll never follow you. I didn't follow you to-night. I only said I did. I found out what I wanted to find out just as well by that, didn't I?" He was dazed. He had never guessed that she could be so diabolically clever. He sank into a chair and shut his eyes, unable to speak. She went on, without the slightest inflexion in the maddening level of her voice: "I'm going to leave you, Kenneth. You want Clare, and I'm going to leave you to her. I won't have you when you want another woman." He buried his head in his hands and muttered, in a voice husky with sobbing: "That's not true, Helen. I don't want Clare. I don't want any other woman. I only want you, Helen. Helen, you won't leave me, will you? Promise me you won't leave me, Helen. Helen, don't you--can't you believe me when I tell you I don't want Clare?" Still she reiterated, like some curious, solemn litany: "I'm going to leave you, Kenneth. You don't really want me. It's Clare you want, not me. You'll be far happier with Clare. And I shall be far happier without you than with you when you're wanting Clare. I--I can't bear you to want Clare, Kenneth. I'd rather you--have her--than want her. So I've decided. I'm not angry with you. I'm just determined, that's all. I shall leave you and then you'll be free to do what you like."