"For judge and victim are awake at last; and in the twinkling of an eye, the old world has become a memory or a shrine for those tranquil pilgrims who return to worship for a while where love lies sleeping.... And then return no more."
She rose, signed him to remain seated, came around to where he sat, and perched herself on the arm of his chair.
"If you don't mind," she said, "I shall smooth out that troubled crease between your eyebrows." And she encircled his head with both arms, and laid her smooth hands across his forehead. Then she touched his hair lightly, with her lips.
"We are great sinners," she murmured, "are we not, my darling?"
And drew his head against her breast.
"Of what am I robbing her, Clive? Of the power to humiliate you, make you unhappy. It is an honest theft.
"What else am I stealing from her? Not love, not gratitude, not duty, nothing of tenderness, nor of pride nor sympathy. I take nothing, then, from her. She
has nothing for me to steal—unless it be the plain gold ring she never wears.... And I prefer a new one—if, indeed, I am to wear one."
He said, deeply troubled, "How do you know she never wears a ring?" And he turned and looked up at her over his shoulder. The clear azure of her eyes was like a wintry sky.
"Clive, I know more than that. I know that your wife is in New York."