asier and more restful to yield to her
spell.

"I'm so sorry. Idiotic of me," was all he said; and went forward to take
her in his arms.

But she, without a word, laid both hands on him, holding him back.

"_Rose!_ What's the matter?" he cried, genuinely upset. Nothing
undermines a resolve like finding it forestalled.

"Simply--it's all over. We're beaten, Roy," she said in a queer,
repressed voice. "We can't go on with this. And--you know it."

"But--darling!" He took her by the arms.

"No ... _no_!" The passionate protest was addressed to herself as much
as to him. "Listen, Roy. I've never hated saying anything more--but it's
true. You said, last time,--'Why pretend?' And that struck home. I knew
I had been pretending hard--because I wanted to--for more than a week.
You made me realise ... one couldn't go on at it all one's married
life.--But, my dear, what a wretch I am! You're not fit...."

"Oh, I'm just wobbly ... stupid," he muttered, half dazed, as she
pressed him down into a corner of the Chesterfield.

"Poor old boy. When you've had some tea, you'll be able to face things."

He said nothing; merely leaned back against the cushion and closed his
eyes--part of him rebelling furiously against her quiet yet summary
proceedings--while she attended to the sputtering kettle.

How prosaic, after all, are even the great moments of life! They had
been ardent lovers. They had come to the parting of the ways. But a
kettle on the boil would wait for no man; and, till the body was served,
the troubles of the heart must stand aside.

She drew the table nearer to him; carefully poured out tea; carefully
avoided his eyes. And--in the intervals between her mechanical
occupations--she told him as much of the truth as she felt he could bear
to hear, or she to speak. Among other things, unavoidably, she explained
how--and through whom--her mother had come to know about their
reservation----

"_That_ young sweep!" Roy muttered, so suddenly half-alert and fierce
that amused tenderness tripped up her studied composure.

"You'd go for him now, just the same, I believe!"

"I would--and a bit extra. Because--of you."

She sighed. "Oh yes, it was a _mauvais quart d'heure_ of the first
order. And coming on the top of your crushing letter----"

He captured her hand. Their eyes met--and softened.

"No, Roy," she said, gently but inexorably releasing her fingers. "We've
got to keep our heads to-day, somehow."

"Has yours