“No, I am very sane. And very tired. I loved you, Aubrey. I shall never love any one else. I am clotted with your passions, Aubrey. I wanted love, but you ravaged me like a wild beast. And what is left of me now, I want to preserve. Oh, I want to! Please understand ... just a little! All last night I wondered what I would do. I saw you coming back, my dear, the hunter coming back to his fireside and his wife and his holiday—oh, yes, I am your holiday, Aubrey!—and then I saw you going away again, leaving me.... Oh, Aubrey, how you have sinned against love! And so I went away, because of the horror of it. And I have come back, because of the horror of your loneliness. I, who am used to loneliness! And I also came back to see if you were—different....”
“If,” she whispered, “we were living in a past time, I should go into a nunnery, to get assoiled. But as it is, dear, I shall go for a walk....”
“Let me come with you,” he begged humbly.
“No, Aubrey. I’d like to walk quite alone. Towards the moon and back.” But the moon was behind a cloud with a satin fringe.
He watched her as she walked across the garden and was lost in darkness. He waited for a long time, but he knew she would not return. She has never returned.
IV: THE MAN WITH THE BROKEN NOSE
I
“Ever been to the National Gallery?” asked George Tarlyon.
It was an offensive question to ask a grown man, but I answered it.
“Ah,” said Tarlyon.