"You have no right to judge," she persisted.
He smiled with white lips.
"Oh, yes, I have! We all have. We condemn men to prison—to death."
"You do believe in God," she said bitterly. "You believe in yourself."
"It comes to this, Francey, doesn't it? You're through with me? You don't care any more?"
Her eyes narrowed with a kind of desperate humour. It was as though for a moment she had regained her old vision of him—a sad queer little boy.
"You say that because you want to shirk the truth. You're almost glad—presently you will be very glad. You never did want to care—not from the first. Caring got in your way. You will be free now." She waited, and then added very quietly, without anger: "I love you. I dare say I always shall—but I couldn't live with you—it would break my heart if we should come to hate one another. Don't think any more about it. I'll have gone to-morrow, and I'll try to arrange not to come back till you're through. It will be all right."
"Francey, it's such a foolish thing to quarrel about."
"It's everything," she said simply.
She turned to go. Even then he could have stopped her. He could have said: "Francey, Christine died this morning!" and their sad enmity might have melted in grief and pity. But what she had said was true. It was everything. And his reason, his will, rising up out of the general ruin, monstrous and powerful, stood like an admonishing shadow at his elbow.