Yes, that was his difficulty. Although she would be gone there would still be a bar between him and Julia. That was the tragedy.
"I'll be out when the wire comes, probably," he said. It seemed to amuse him to settle the details; he seemed to be flinging his seriousness aside. "Rackham is coming over to try a horse. For form's sake you'll have to send for me immediately. I'll be somewhere down in the schooling pastures."
The nearness of exile took away her breath. But the impossible situation could only have ended so. That had been their bargain. At least she had not failed him, she had done all that he asked of her, drinking the bitter cup of her own dishonesty to the dregs. A rush of memory carried her back to that first night of his return, so distant, and yet such a little while ago. She held out her hand to him, humbly, uncertainly—
"Good night," she said. "You—you have been good to me."
Barnaby took her hands in his; clasped them hard. It was surely not his voice that was so unsteady.
"It's the last time, is it?" he said. "Let's play it out gallantly. Let's pretend. Susan,—Susan—is that how you say good night to your husband?"
Her heart beat fast; her head was dizzy. He was looking down in her eyes, drawing her hands to his breast.
No, not Barnaby:—not the one man she trusted!...
"Good night,—Sir," she whispered.
And he remembered; he let her go and stood back as she passed him on her way to the stairs.