"But will you?"
"Will I what?"
"Will you try to say to yourself: I'm a man, and I'm equal to this. It can't knock me down; it can't even stagger me. I'll take it in the highest way. I sha'n't let it degrade me or send me for help to degrading things—"
He flung his hands outward. "Yes, yes. I know what you're driving at. I promise. Only, for God's sake, tell me. Is it about—?"
"It's about Mrs. Walker."
"Yes, so I supposed. But what is it? Is she ill? Oh, she isn't dead?"
The cry made her eyes smart, but she kept control of her voice.
"No, she's not dead. She's not even ill. She's perfectly well, so I understand. But she's been—" The horror in his face, the way in which he leaned forward as though he would spring at her, warned her that he knew what was coming. She gave him time to get himself in hand by rising and taking the two or three paces to the fireplace, where she stood with a hand on the mantel-board, which was above her head, while she gazed into the embers. "She's been—married."
She didn't turn round. She knew by all the subtle unnamed senses that he was huddled in his big arm-chair in a state of collapse. For the minute there was nothing to say or do. Since the iron had to enter into his soul, it was better that it should be like this. It was better that it should be like this—with her there to keep him such company as one human being can keep for another at such an hour—better than if he were to learn it in the solitude of his own rooms, or in the unsustaining frigidity of a lawyer's office. She knew she didn't count for much, except for the fact—a detail only—that she was with him in every nerve that helped her to sensation and every faculty she possessed.
So, after the minutes had passed—ten, perhaps, or fifteen—instinct told her when to speak again. She did it without changing the position in which she stood, or turning for a glance toward him.