"I found a letter of yours lying open. Did he answer your invitation?"
"Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long. But I haven't seen him. What do you intend to do when you leave me?"
"Go home again and wait," she answered, with quiet sadness.
"In solitude? And what assurance have you that he means to come?"
"None whatever. But where else should I go, but home? My place is there, until I have heard his pleasure."
It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone. Her eyes were fixed upon the picture again. Looking at her, Mallard was moved by something of the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her heart. Her pure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of the soul's life, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos. It revolted him to think of her in connection with those brutalities of the newspaper; he had a movement of rebellion against the undiscerning rigour of social rule. Disinterested absolutely, but he averted his face lest she should have a suspicion of what he thought.
In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose. He had feared other things. It was hateful that she should remain the wife of such a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her? The law that demands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble many is too swift and sure in avenging itself when defied. It was well that she had constrained herself to accept the inevitable.
"You will write this evening to Mrs. Lessingham?" he said, in a tone of assuredness.
"Why do you wish me to do that?" she asked, looking at him.
"Because of the possibility of your still being left alone. You are not able to bear that."