“Her voice was soft and caressing: the note of anger and impatience had passed from it utterly. ‘That is how he will always win her back to him,’ I thought. ‘He is weak and makes her pity him, a sort of maternal mistress.’
“And again her voice said gently: ‘What is it, my darling, tell me?’
“For an answer he dived his hand into his breast pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it to her.
“‘Read that,’ he said. ‘It’ll explain everything. Someone has written to my wife, has told her all about us. You’ll see, it’s there, read it!’
“She took the letter, a short, five-line thing, unsigned, undated. Her cheeks flushed, she turned to him and laid her hand on his. ‘Oh, Paul!’ she said, ‘Paul!’
“There was a poignant, dramatic silence. Then he spoke again in the calm tones of despair.
“‘There’s nothing to be done; you know how things are with me. I am weak, I daresay, but I’ll have to do what my wife wants. There’s my father, you see: it would break his heart, and our child, I can’t leave him with my wife; I can’t, I owe that much to him.’
“‘So it’s over then, Paul?’
“He nodded, and I could see, from the sudden paling of the flesh, how tightly her fingers were pressing upon his. It seemed to me that at the moment of separation they had won back to the ecstasy of their first embraces: that they were nearer now than they had been for many months.
“I rose from my chair.