“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’d like to pretend. But I’ve changed, too. I suppose you can’t marry without being changed. A woman who loses her husband looks silly. But she needn’t if she doesn’t feel it. You can’t pretend. Neither can I. You’ve taught me that. We’ve failed where nearly everybody else fails, but we admit it. What’s the good of pitching good life after bad? It’s no one’s business but our own. They’ll talk. Let them talk.”
He hardly heard what she said. He was weary of her voice droning on and on.
“If it is the end,” he muttered, “then there is no more to be said.”
He walked round to Professor Smallman’s. He had no notion of the time. Mrs. Smallman admitted him, saw that something was wrong, showed him into the study, and left him. He stood leaning against the doorpost. The Professor was sitting in his great chair with a cigar in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other.
“Good evening,” said René. “I have left my wife.”
Down went the Professor’s legs, round came his head out of the great chair:
“Great God!”
“I just walked round to tell you. I don’t know why.”