"Three weeks ago? Has he gone away?"
"I can't tell you. I've been back to the flat once or twice, but he won't see me."
"You've been back? Then he's there? Where have you been living, then?"
"I had a little room in Notting Hill. It's because I've got no money to pay for my lodging—"
Her lip began its quivering once more.
"That you came to me? Because you've got no money? Where is all your money?"
"It's spent. He says there is no more."
I could sit still no longer. It was only possible to hear her story as I walked up and down the room.
"But why did he send you away?" I continued. "You're his wife. He must keep you; he must support you; a thousand times more now that he has spent every farthing that you have. He must go and work his fingers to the bone. He must slave like a dog now—give his whole life up to the reparation of the loss he's brought you. You've every cause to insist upon it. You must insist upon it. It's your right—your common right. Good Lord, you're his wife!"
She looked very straightly in my face. Her own was pale as though all anger in it had burnt to whitened ashes. The deep hollows of her eyes were filled with ominous shadows. At that gaze of hers, I thought: "Supposing she might die." I cannot tell why it came into my mind, for how could I have known? A month ago I had seen her well—in a forced gaiety of spirits. How could I have dreamed she was so near the very climax of her suffering? So I let the thought pass on and felt it shudder through me. I misread that steady gazing of her eyes. I never guessed that she was asking of me more understanding than a man can give. How should I have understood? And yet a woman would have known. Long before this a woman would have taken the knowledge that was being withheld from her. But in my blind innocence I struggled on, dragging her to the very pinnacle of her shame.