He recognized at last that he was staying on in the hope of penetrating her defenses. Having come to that, he attacked her one night when George and Elsie were out, and he knew there was no service at the church for her to escape to. Like the dutiful husband he was, George made a practice of taking Elsie to a music-hall once a week, a music-hall or two cinemas, as she chose. Mrs. Fourmy had put down her knitting and said: "I think I would like a game of patience, René." He put out the table and the cards and they played. He said: "I wonder how you can stand seeing them play the old, old game." "What old game?" "Marriage. Killing each other in the first few weeks and then--humbug." "George is a very good husband and father." "He lives with a woman in his house and children come automatically." "He is very good to Elsie." "He placates her." Mrs. Fourmy took out the ace of diamonds and covered it. René said: "Do you ever think, mother, of how we used to say we'd go and live together?" "Sometimes. I knew it was just nonsense." Her eyes gave him a quick little affectionate glance, searching for affection. Ah! that was better. "Not such nonsense, either. Why shouldn't you go and live in Aunt Janet's cottage? It was that I was thinking of, though I never thought it would be mine." "I'd be so lonely." "No lonelier than you are here." "No." That escaped her involuntarily. She covered it up. "You're too old for that sort of talk, René. You're not a boy any longer." "I'm much younger than I was then." "Yes, that's true. Would you come too?" "No. I--I'm going south again." "Have you met--her?" "Yes." "I thought so." Her hands trembled. "Are you--are you going to live with her?" "I hope so." "It will be living in sin. I couldn't live in your house if I knew that----" "You prefer George?" "I--I---- Please don't talk about it any more, René." "I must. You love me far more than you love George, and yet you prefer to accept a home from him rather than from me." "Certain things are wrong, René." "I take my chance of that." "We aren't given any choice." "Hell in this world or hell in the next." "Don't speak lightly of such things, René." "I saw my father in London." Mrs. Fourmy let the cards trickle from her hands, and sat staring at him with weary, frightened eyes. "You are your father over again." "He told me. Then it was your love or your religion----" "Don't, René, don't!" He could not continue. He watched her living again in the agony of the memory, righting with it, fighting it back, stifling the hunger in herself. He rose to leave her. She thought he was already gone, and slipped to her knees in an attitude of prayer. René went to his room at the back of the house, the exact counterpart of his old den. He cursed that jealous God, that brutal invention of cowardice which has laid waste the western world. His rage only subsided when he came to think of Cathleen. He took paper and pen and wrote to her: