The tortured determination of his voice told her that the coming moment could not be evaded. A cool, accustomed steadiness of nerves and brain rose to meet it. She crossed the room, and switched on the tiny desk-lamp, the golden-shaded light of which only warmed the dusk. But her opened lips made no sound; she indicated the big, leather chair only with a gesture, settling herself on the cushioned window-seat. He remained standing, his hands in his coat-pockets, his gaze on the fingers interlaced on her knees.
"You're a married woman."
A shock ran through her. She had worn those old bonds so long without feeling them that she had forgotten they were there. Why—why, she was herself, H. D. Kennedy, salesman, office-manager, householder.
His voice went on stubbornly, hoarse.
"I haven't got any right to talk this way. But, Helen, what are you going to do? Don't you see I've got to know? Don't you see I can't go on? It isn't fair." He faltered, dragging out the words as though by muscular effort. "It isn't fair to—him. Or me or you. Helen, if—if things do go to pieces, as you said—can't you see I'll—just have to be in a position to do something?"
The tremulous intoxication was gone. Her composed self-possession of the moment before seemed a cheap, smug attitude. She saw a naked, tortured soul, and the stillness of the room was reflected in the stillness within her.
"What do you want me to do?" she said at last.
He walked to the cold hearth and stood looking down at the piled sticks. His voice, coming from the shadows, sounded as though muffled by them. "Tell me—do you still care about him?"
All the wasted love and broken hopes, the muddied, miserable tangle of living, swept over her, the suffering that had been buried by many days, the memories she had locked away and smothered, Bert, and all that he had been to her. And now she could not remember his face. She could not see him clearly in her mind; she did not know where he was. When had she thought of him last?
"No," she said.