n it; but, day after day, his pain was intensified by the sight
of Anne's pain. She was exquisitely vulnerable, and for every pang that
stabbed her he felt himself responsible. What they had done they had
done together, and they suffered for it together, but in the beginning
she had done it for him, and he had made her do it. Nobody, not even
Maisie, could have been more innocent than Anne. He had no doubt that,
left to herself, she would have hidden her passion from him to the end
of time. He, therefore, was the cause of her suffering.

It was as if Anne's consciousness were transferred to him, day after
day, when they sat together in Maisie's room, one on each side of her
bed, while Maisie lay between them, sleeping her helpless and
reproachful sleep, and he saw Anne's piteous face, white with pain. His
pity for Maisie and his pity for Anne, their pity for each other were
mixed together and held them, close as passion, in an unbearable
communion.

They looked at each other, and their wounded eyes said, day after day,
the same thing: "Yes, it hurts. But I could bear it if it were not for
you." Their pity took the place of passion. It was as if a part of each
other passed into them with their suffering as it had passed into them
with their joy.

ii

And through it all their passion itself still lived its inextinguishable
and tortured life. Pity, so far from destroying it, only made it
stronger, pouring in its own emotion, wave after wave, swelling the
flood that carried them towards the warm darkness where will and thought
would cease.

And as Jerrold's soul had once stirred in the warm darkness under the
first stinging of remorse, so now it pushed and struggled to be born;
all his will fought against the darkness to deliver his soul. His soul
knew that Anne saved it. If her will had been weaker his would not have
been so strong. At this moment an unscrupulous Anne might have damned
him to the sensual hell by clinging to his pity. He would have sinned
because he was sorry for her.

But Anne's will refused his pity. When he showed it she was angry. Yet
it was there, waiting for her always, against her will.

One day in October (Maisie's illness lasting on into the autumn) they
had gone out into the garden to breathe the cold, clean air while Maisie
slept.

"Jerrold," she said, suddenly, "do you think she knows?"

"No. I'm certain she doesn't."

"I'm not. I've an awful feeling that she knows and that's why