as always in my heart.
We did our best, both of us; but it was useless. The passion of my life
was--it was invincible. I _tried_ to love Frank. I could only like him.
Fancy his position! And we were helpless. Because, you know, Frank and I
are not the sort of people that go and make a scandal--at least, that was
what I thought,' she sighed. 'I know different now. Well, he died the day
before yesterday.'

'Who?'

'Crettell. He had just been made a judge. He was the youngest judge on
the bench--only forty-six.'

'Was _that_ the man?' I exclaimed; for Crettell's character was well
known in London.

'That was the man. Frank came in yesterday afternoon, and after he had
glanced at the paper, he said: "By the way, Crettell's dead." I did not
grasp it at first. He repeated: "Crettell--he's dead." I burst into
tears. I couldn't help it. And, besides, I forgot. Frank asked me very
roughly what I was crying for. You know, Frank has much changed these
last few months. He is not as nice as he used to be. Excuse me talking
like this, my dear. Something must be worrying him. Well, I said as well
as I could while I was crying that the news was a shock to me. I tried to
stop crying, but I couldn't. I sobbed. Frank threw down the paper and
stamped on it, and he swore. He said: "I know you've always been in love
with the brute, but you needn't make such a damn fuss about it." Oh, my
dear, how can I tell you these things? That angered me. This was the
first time in our married life that Crettell had been even referred to,
and it seemed to me that Frank put all the hatred of fifteen years into
that single sentence. Why was I angry? I didn't know. We had a scene.
Frank lost his temper, for the first time that I remember, and then he
recovered it. He said quietly he couldn't stand living with me any more;
and that he had long since wanted to leave me. He said he would never see
me again. And then one of the servants came in, and--'

'What?'

'Nothing. I sent her out. And--and--Fran didn't come home last night.'

There was a silence. I could find nothing to say, and Mary had hidden her
face. I utterly forgot myself and my own state in this extraordinary
hazard of matrimony. I could only think of Mary's grief--a grief which,
nevertheless, I did not too well comprehend.

'Then you love him now?' I ventured at length.

She made no reply.

'You love him--is that so?' I pursued. 'Tell me honestly.'

I spoke as gently as it was in me