"And as it happens" (Caldecott's voice shook a little), "I'm going away next week. I shall be away a very long time."
She knew that he did not look at her now lest he should see her wince. She did not wince.
"Well," said she, "I shall be here when you come back."
It was then that she saw the terror in his face.
"Of course," he said, "I hope—very much—you will be here."
She felt that he, like Julia, was leading her to the edge of the deep dividing place, and that he paused miserably where Julia had plunged. She saw him trying to bridge the gulf, to cover it, with decent, gentle commonplaces and courtesies. Then he went away.
What had she done to make him afraid of her? Or was it what she had said? The other day, before she had seen Julia, she could have said anything to him. Now it seemed there was nothing that she could say.
What was it that he had seen in her?
That was it. With all his wonderful comprehension he had failed her in the ultimate test—the ability to see what was in her. He had seen nothing but one thing, the thing he was accustomed to see, the material woman's passion to pursue, to make captive, to possess. He would go thinking all his life that it was she who had failed, she who, by her vulgarity, had made it impossible for him to remain her friend. She supposed she had piled it up too high. It was her very defenses that had betrayed her, made her more flagrant and exposed.
She bowed herself for hours to the scourging of that thought till the thought itself perished from exhaustion.