And suddenly her stroking hand ceased. Suddenly the real woman cried out from her.
"I can't reach you!" she cried aloud. "I can't reach you. I would do anything.... You! You with your heart half broken...."
She turned towards the door. She moved clumsily, she was blinded by her tears.
Mr. Britling uncovered his face. He stood up astonished, and then pity and pitiful understanding came storming across his grief. He made a step and took her in his arms. "My dear," he said, "don't go from me...."
She turned to him weeping, and put her arms about his neck, and he too was weeping.
"My poor wife!" he said, "my dear wife. If it were not for you—I think I could kill myself to-night. Don't cry, my dear. Don't, don't cry. You do not know how you comfort me. You do not know how you help me."
He drew her to him; he put her cheek against his own....
His heart was so sore and wounded that he could not endure that another human being should go wretched. He sat down in his chair and drew her upon his knees, and said everything he could think of to console her and reassure her and make her feel that she was of value to him. He spoke of every pleasant aspect of their lives, of every aspect, except that he never named that dear pale youth who waited now.... He could wait a little longer....
At last she went from him.
"Good night," said Mr. Britling, and took her to the door. "It was very dear of you to come and comfort me," he said....