‘For always, you mean?’
‘We could see, perhaps it would look differently afterwards—for the present I mean—we can’t go on living together, and I can’t see anything better to do.’
Dot’s eyes grew hard. ‘If you go,’ she said, ‘I will never live with you again. But I don’t ask you not to go.’
‘Yes, it is the best thing,’ he said, which answered his own thoughts rather than fitted in with her words.
She looked at him strangely. ‘When were you thinking of going?’
‘To-morrow,’ he said, ‘to-day, rather. There is no use in delaying—I arranged everything to-night—last night.’
‘Very well,’ Dot said, ‘that is settled then.’ She pulled the cloak up tightly and rose, then she loosened it again and sat down. Her eyes were cold, her lips very firm.
‘Remember,’ she said ‘this is final. I committed a fault—perhaps. I cannot do [p 118] ]more than ask your forgiveness. Do not think I shall be put away and taken back at pleasure. Go—I would not put out my finger to keep you, but never again so long as both of us live will I be your wife in anything except name.’
He sat down on the chair near the little writing table, the light was full on his white face and lips.
‘I can only see a little way,’ he said. ‘Later—say in some months—we will decide further: feelings change wonderfully, perhaps I shall look at your act—differently; if we live together I can’t; it would always look the same. It is best, I can see. We couldn’t just go on living as before. I couldn’t, at least, so I will go, for a time at any rate, and you—you will be glad to be alone I know.’