"That can't be helped. And I couldn't go on like this, Kitty—even if this affair of the book could be patched up. The strain's too great."
They were but a yard apart, and yet she seemed to be looking at him across a gulf.
"You have been so happy in your work!" This time the sob escaped her.
"Oh, don't let's talk about that," he said, abruptly, as he walked away. "There'll be a certain relief in giving up the impossible. I'll go back to my books. We can travel, I suppose, and put politics out of our heads."
"But—you won't resign your seat?"
"No," he said, after a pause—"no. As far as I can see at present, I sha'n't resign my seat, though my constituents, of course, will be very sick. But I doubt whether I shall stand again."
Every phrase fell as though with a thud on Kitty's ear. It was the wreck of a man's life, and she had done it.
"Shall you—shall you go and see Lord Parham?" she asked, after a pause.
"I shall write to him first. I imagine"—he pointed to the letter lying on the table—"that creature has already sent him the book. Then later I daresay I shall see him."
She looked up.