Anne rose. "If you do not wish to take the case, please say so. I am not doing this hastily. I have thought it over very carefully."
"Ah—then there is perhaps nothing else to do," he said with a sudden change of tone. He was like a well-trained dog, refusing a bone until his master's permission allows him to snatch it. "You wish to institute proceedings directly, I suppose?"
"Yes. I would like you to act right away."
"Certainly. After all, Mrs. Barton, that is the brave thing to do—think, decide and act." His smile admitted Anne to the regions of masculine logic, uncluttered by the usual feminine sentimentality.
Ten minutes later, Anne was down again on the street. Dazed as if she had emerged into a strange world, she walked unseeing in the hurrying stream. She had done the one clear thing to do and yet she could not shake off the feeling that this act, instead of ending a situation, had created it. It had not existed until she had risen and spoken sharply to that vile old man. Until then she had been alone. Now she had admitted strangers. Before, her inner life had been her own; now, every one who heard of the Barton divorce would share it. They would surmise, and discuss, and nibble at her privacy.
Anne walked slowly along in the hot noon sunshine, up the hill to the cottage. This was changed, too. It was like a house, clean and straightened after a funeral, the flowers gone, the extra chairs removed. This was divorce of which one spoke so carelessly, this great emptiness to be filled with unglimpsed future. No one to consider now but herself. Every experience to be her own, unshared, unadjusted to another. It was like the clearness of a cold north wind that obliterates all softness, sharpens every outline. Clear, cold, stark, the future lay before her.
The next Thursday afternoon, as usual, a little before three, Anne let herself into the flat. At this hour, James was usually awake and Hilda busy warming the broth or malted milk he always took in the afternoon. But to-day, as Anne went up the stairs, she felt a thick silence envelop her, and before she had reached the top, she knew that they knew. For a moment she thought of slipping away. Then she went quietly on. They would have had to know soon. It did not matter.
In the kitchen, James Mitchell sat in his chair, the daily paper spread open on the reading rack. Hilda stood beside him. They might have been victims of Pompeii, stricken at their tasks. As Anne came quietly into the room and stood inside the door, Hilda turned frightened eyes upon her.
"What is it," she whispered piteously, "what is it, Annie? It isn't true?"
She pointed to the paper and Anne knew how they knew. The lawyer had indeed lost no time. Anne moved to the chair and took the paper.