Harboro took a step forward. He meant to take a chair, too; but his eyes were not removed from hers, and she shrank back with a soft cry of terror.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he assured her. He sat down opposite her, slowly, as very ill people sit down.
As if she were still holding to some thought that had been in her mind, she asked: “What do you mean to do, then?”
He was breathing heavily. “What does a man do in such a case?” he said—to himself rather than to her, it might have seemed. “I shall go away,” he said at length. “I shall clear out.” He brought his hands down upon the arms of his chair heavily—not in wrath, but as if surrendering all hope of seeing clearly. “Though it isn’t a very simple thing to do,” he added slowly. “You see, you’re a part of me. At least, that’s what I’ve come to feel. And how can a man go away from himself? How can a part of a man go away and leave the other part?” He lifted his fists and smote his breast until his whole body shook. And then he leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his hands clasped before him. He was staring into vacancy. He aroused himself after a time. “Of course, I’ll have to go,” he said. He seemed to have become clear on that one point. And then he flung himself back in his chair and thrust his arms out before him. “What were you driving at, Sylvia?” he asked.
“Driving at...?”
“I hadn’t done you any harm. Why did you marry me, if you didn’t love me?”
“I do love you!” She spoke with an intensity which disturbed him.
“Ah, you mean—you did?”
“I mean I do!”
He arose dejectedly with the air of a man who finds it useless to make any further effort. “We’ll not talk about it, then,” he said. He turned toward the door.