"I knew a long time ago that if it ever came to a scene it would be the end. I suppose I'm not romantic enough for you. I don't know what it is. But I know enough to feel that a scene with you would be serious. Even little girls know that men must have scenes. It's a kind of love-making with them. You're different." "Yes." "I can't pretend that you haven't hurt me." "I'm sorry." "Oh, I'd like to pretend. But I've changed, too. I suppose you can't marry without being changed. A woman who loses her husband looks silly. But she needn't if she doesn't feel it. You can't pretend. Neither can I. You've taught me that. We've failed where nearly everybody else fails, but we admit it. What's the good of pitching good life after bad? It's no one's business but our own. They'll talk. Let them talk." He hardly heard what she said. He was weary of her voice droning on and on. "If it is the end," he muttered, "then there is no more to be said." He walked round to Professor Smallman's. He had no notion of the time. Mrs. Smallman admitted him, saw that something was wrong, showed him into the study, and left him. He stood leaning against the doorpost. The Professor was sitting in his great chair with a cigar in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. "Good evening," said René. "I have left my wife." Down went the Professor's legs, round came his head out of the great chair: "Great God!" "I just walked round to tell you. I don't know why." "But, my dear fellow, what on earth-- Not two years." "Is it?" "I say. Is she? Would you like Freda to go round?" "No. She is quite calm. It's finished. It's she who said it. It never began." "Come, come. Sit down. You'd better sleep here to-night." "No, thanks. I don't want to see you ever again." "Tut, tut! My good Fourmy!" "I mean it," said René dispassionately. "Wait a moment." The Professor hurried out of the room, and René could hear him in the hall talking eagerly to his wife. He was seized with a dreary impatience of these good people, with their unfailing kindness. He knew perfectly well that in a moment they would return, husband and wife, _the_ husband and wife, and throw him scraps of their happiness for comfort and persuasion, while with their exchange of glances they would bar him out. No. That was intolerable. He stepped to the French window, opened it, and walked out, round the house and through the garden into the street. Another false move checked; another false relationship ended.