"Yes," said Ingeborg, hurrying on to the principal sentence of those she had prepared at Zoppot and learned by heart, desperately clutching at it before Robert's questions had undermined her courage and befogged the issues. "Yes, and I've come to the conclusion after ripe meditation--after ripe yes--the production of the--of the--yes, of the already extinct"--(dead seemed an unkind word, almost rude) "is wasteful, and that--and that--....Oh, Robert," she cried, flinging out her hands and letting go all the rest of the things she had learned to say, "don't you think this persistent parenthood might end now?" He stared at her in utter amazement. "It--it _disagrees_ with me," she said, tears in her voice and in her anxious, appealing eyes. "Am I to under--" "Anyhow _I_ can't go on," she cried, twisting her fingers about in an agony. "There's so little of me to go on _with_. I'm getting stupider every day. I've got no brains left. I've got no anything. Why, I can hardly get together enough courage to tell you this. Oh, Robert," she appealed, "it isn't as though it made you _really_ happier--you don't really _particularly_ notice the children when they're there--it isn't as though it made anybody _really_ happier--and--and--I'm dreadfully sorry, but I've done." And she dropped on to the floor beside him and put her cheek against his sleeve and tried to make up by kissing it and clinging to it for her subversion of that strange tremendous combination of Duty and Providence that so bestrode her life. "If only you wouldn't _mind_--" she kept on saying. But Herr Dremmel, for the first time since he had known her, was deeply offended, deeply hurt. She had pierced his armour at the one vulnerable spot. His manhood was outraged; his kindness, his patience, his affection were forgotten and spurned. He looked down at the head against his arm with a face in which wounded pride, wrath, shockedness at so great a defiance of duty, and the amazed aggrievement of him whose gifts and blessings are not wanted, struggled together. Then, as she still went on clinging and incoherently suggesting that he should not mind, he rose up, took her by the hand, helped her to her feet, and led her to the door; and there, after facing her a moment in silence with it opened in his hand while she stood blinking up at him with appealing eyes, he said dreadfully: "Evidently you do not and never have loved me." CHAPTER XXIII Ingeborg crept away down the passage with the sound in her ears of the key being turned in the lock behind her.