Roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire. Barbara's face was very pale and the light had gone from her eyes.
"Roger," she said, in a strange tone, "Constance was my mother's name. Do you think——"
He was startled, for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition. "I—do—not—know," he said.
"They knew each other," Barbara went on, swiftly, "for the two families have always lived here, in these same two houses where you and I were born. It was only a step across the road, and they——"
A Barrier
She choked back a sob. Something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and Roger.
The blood beat hard in his ears and his own words sounded dull and far away. "It is dated June third," he said.
"My mother died on the seventh," said Barbara, slowly, "by—her—own—hand."
They sat in silence for a long time. Then, speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably. There was a consciousness as of guilt, on either side.