ANNA MASON.
There was silence. Eugénie had read the letter in a soft voice that trembled. She looked up. Fenwick was staring straight before him, and she saw him shudder.
'I know it's horrible,' he said, in a low voice—'and cowardly—but I feel as if I couldn't face it—I couldn't bear it.'
And he began feebly to pace to and fro, looking like an old, grey-haired man in the dim grotesqueness of the light. Eugénie understood. She felt, with mingled dread and pity, that she was in the presence of a weakness which represented far more than the immediate emotion; was the culmination, indeed, of a long, disintegrating process.
She hesitated—moved—wavered—then took courage again.
'Come and sit down,' she said, gently.
And, going up to him, she took him by the arm and led him back to his chair.
He sank upon it, his eyes hanging on her. She stooped over him.
'Shall I,' she said, uncertainly—'shall I—go first? Oh, I oughtn't to go! Nobody ought to interfere—between husband and wife. But if you wish it—if I could do any good—'
Her eyes sought the answer of his.