"Bertie!" There was quick distress in her voice this time. "But you have done nothing wrong," she declared vehemently, "nothing whatever!"
He shook his head in silence, not looking at her.
"And you are ill," she went on, passing the matter by as if not trusting herself. "What will you do? Where will you go?"
He sat up slowly and faced her. "I go to London," he said, "and I must start now. Do not be anxious for me, Christine. I have money enough. Mr. Mordaunt offered me more this morning. But I had no need of it, and I refused."
He spoke quite steadily. He was braced for the ordeal. He would be strong until the need for strength was past.
But with Chris it was otherwise. For her there was no prospect of relaxation. She was but at the beginning of her trial, and her whole soul shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her. The dear dreams of her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen. And she had awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long she could never hope to escape. Did some memory of the arms that had enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it? If so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that woman's heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.
And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her rose up in sudden, hot revolt. His departure was inevitable, and she knew it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain. She had deemed herself stronger than she was.
She threw out her hands with a passionate gesture. "Bertie! What shall I do without you? I can't go on by myself. I can't—I can't!"
It was like the cry of a child, but in it there throbbed all the deep longing of her womanhood. Ah! why had her eyes been opened? Surely she had been happier blind!
He took the outflung hands and held them. He looked into her eyes. "But, chérie," he said, "you have your husband."