The childlike irresponsibility was above his comprehension. Her apparent insensibility to the most vital concerns of life was another shock to him. It seemed criminal. “God forgive you,” he said, “for the wrong you have done me.” “But I did it unknowingly, Everard,” cried poor Yvonne. “If one has to get greater proofs, why did you not ask for them, yourself?” The Canon turned away and paced the room slowly, without replying. At last he stood still before her. “Among ordinary honourable people one takes such things for granted,” he said. “Forgive me,” she said again, humbly. But he could find no pity for her in his heart. She had wronged him past redemption. “How much truth was there in the newspaper story?” he asked coldly. She told him rapidly what Amédée Bazouge had said concerning his attack in the hospital and his subsequent stroke. “So the man is wilfully killing himself with absinthe?” he said. “It appears so,” replied Yvonne with a shudder. “Could you tell me what passed between you otherwise--in general terms?” he asked, after a short silence. “You explained your position? Or did you leave him in ignorance, as you were going to leave me?” “I told him--of course. It was necessary. And he laughed--I thought to spare you, Everard.” “Spare me, Yvonne?” “Yes,” she said, simply, “I could have borne all the pain and fright of it alone--why should I have made you unhappy? And _he_ said he would never interfere with me, and I can trust his word. Why should I have told you, Everard?” “Do you actually ask me such a question, honestly?” “God knows I do,” she replied pitifully. “And you would have gone on living with me--I not being your husband?” “But you are my husband,” cried Yvonne, “nothing could ever alter that.” “But good God! it does alter it,” cried the Canon in a voice of anguish, breaking the iron bonds he had placed on his passion. “Neither in the eyes of God nor of man are you my wife. You have no right to bear my name. After this hour I have no right to enter this room. Every caress I gave you would be sin. Don’t you understand it, child? Don’t you understand that this has brought ruin into our lives, the horror of loneliness and separation?” “Separation?” said Yvonne. She rose slowly from her seat on the bed and stared at him aghast. The twilight in the room deepened; the shadow of a wall opposite the window fell darker. Their faces and Yvonne’s bare neck and arms gleamed white in the gloom. They had spoken with many silences; for how long neither knew. “Yes,” replied the Canon in his harder tones, recovering himself “It means all that.” “I am to go--not to live with you any more?” “Could you imagine our past relations could continue?” “I don’t understand,” she began feebly. And then the darkness fell upon her, and her limbs relaxed. She swayed sideways and would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms and laid her on the couch. “Thank you,” she murmured faintly.