Fenwick turned away. He stooped mechanically to the fire, put it together, lifted a log lying in front of it, laid it carefully on the others. Then he looked at Welby, who on his side had walked to the window and opened it, as though the room suffocated him.
'Everything that you say is just'—said Fenwick, slowly—'I have no answer to make—except that—No!—I have no answer to make.'
He paced once or twice up and down the length of the room, slowly, thoughtfully; then he resumed:
'I shall write to Madame de Pastourelles to-night, and by the first train to-morrow, as soon as these things'—he looked round him—'can be gathered together, I shall be gone!'
Welby moved sharply, showing a face still drawn and furrowed with emotion—'No! she will want to see you.'
Fenwick's composure broke down. 'I had better not see her'—he said—'I had better not see her!'
'You will bear that for her,' said Welby, quietly. 'The more completely you can enlighten her, the better for us all.'
Fenwick's lips moved, but without speaking. Welby's ignorance of the whole truth oppressed him; yet he could make no effort to remove it.
Welby came back towards him.
'There is no reason, I think, why we should carry this conversation further. I will let Miss Morrison know that I have communicated with you.'