She saw he looked pale and nervous.
'What is it, Bruce?' she asked kindly.
'It's this,' he said in a somewhat pompous tone, 'I am in a very strange condition of health. I find I can no longer endure to live in London; I must get away from the war. The doctor says so. If I'm to keep sane, if I'm not to commit suicide, I must give up this domestic life.' She stared at him. 'Yes, I'm sorry, I've tried to endure it,' he went on. 'I can't stand the responsibility, the anxiety of the children and everything. I'm—I'm going away.'
She said nothing, looking at him in silence.
'Yes. I'm going to America. I've taken my passage. I'm going on Friday…. I thought of leaving without telling you, but I decided it was better to be open.'
'But, Bruce, do you mean for a trip?'
He stood up and looked at her full in the face.
'No, I don't mean for a trip. I want to live in America.'
'And you don't want me to come too?'
'No, Edith; I can't endure married life any longer. It doesn't suit me. Three years ago I offered you your freedom and you refused to take it; I offer it you again now. You are older, you are perfectly fit to manage your life and the children's without me. I must be free—free to look after my health and to get away from everything!'