I could not hear what she said after that, for I had been caught unprepared by Sonia and was realizing now for the first time that it was a toss-up whether I saw Bertrand alive. My uncle was a man of almost fifty when I was born. For ten years I was frightened out of my wits by his huge stature and bellowing voice; for another ten I was humiliated by his brutal jests and blasting disparagement; then, as a young man, I rose in exasperation and trounced him till he roared with delight at my beating. From that unlikely beginning sprang a friendship in which Bertrand played the part of father, elder brother, political mentor and fellow-conspirator in my most impressionable years. “I . . simply can’t imagine life without Bertrand,” I told Barbara. “If you want me . . .”, she whispered. Did even she know how the sentence would have ended? I was stunned by the thought of losing Bertrand; I clutched at any one who would take his place, clutching literally with both my hands about Barbara’s wrists. And she, for the first time in my acquaintance, was frightened. “Does this mean . . .?,” I began. “I won’t come into his room, of course,” she continued, in a superb recovery. “If you want me to fetch some one for a second opinion . . .” “Does this mean that we’re going to make a new start?,” I persisted. “I’ll do all I _can_ . . .” Though it was Bertrand’s imminent death that broke my self-control, I forgot him and forgot that we were driving to his death-bed: “The only good you can do is to tell me this ghastly farce is played out! Two years!” “We all make mistakes,” she answered with composure, though she had winced at that word “farce”. “I can’t help you _much_. In these two years I’ve grown used to doing without love. I’ve lost everything, thrown everything away.” The silence that followed seemed to daunt her; and I felt my hand being pressed. “You know as well as I do all you’ve done for me. I’ll be your wife, I’ll bear you children if I can; but I can’t give you a love I don’t feel.” As though I had stepped aside, I saw myself lurching forward to demand satisfaction for the unuttered reproaches and contemptuous suspicions that had masqueraded so long as patience. “Did you ever feel it?,” I heard myself asking. “Have you _ever_ loved _any one_? You’ve been curious about many people; but it’s always been in your head and not in your heart.” “I don’t let _myself_ off!,” she moaned. “I wonder! You have tragic scenes; but, when other people are broken, you survive. If your heart had been brought into the play . . .” I broke off in stark horror. Never before had we held such language; and we were almost within earshot of Bertrand. Barbara was dumbfoundered at first; then she rallied and threw herself into the duel as though I were at last giving her an opportunity of which she had been unfairly deprived ever since our marriage. “I never pretended to be in love with you,” she taunted me.