“They telephoned my father. Papa and he were friends. Philip has been murdered!”
I saw her, saw above all my transcendant need of her like a new radiance within her body. The bewildered cloud upon her face of sorrow was an intruder, a foe.
—You are mine. All else is trampled out in the march of my love.... She would not have it so. She stood there sorrowing. I took her hand, and her touch said: “He is murdered.” It was a film, viscous between us.
But still I could say nothing. I held her hand: I dared not loose it just because it said: “He is murdered.” Why should I be downed by that? Whether it helped or no what did it avail against my mastering need? But the touch of her limp hand spoke, spoke again. My clasp fought vainly, drawing in the foe, in the attempt to shut him out. Mildred withdrew her hand, and left in mine the word of her own:
“Philip is murdered.”
I forced myself to say: “I will leave you, love. I cannot help you now. You will want to be alone.”
She nodded and her eyes avoided mine.
“It is terrible,” she spoke in a voice strangely casual and high. “Who could have murdered Philip? Sweet, gentle Philip. Great Philip. I am all dazed. We spoke of murder in his room, that day.”
“You spoke of murder?”
“Philip said to me: ‘You are the woman for whom man kills. I could kill for you, Mildred.’”