spection. I don't love Jim; I tolerate him. One
can't go through life merely tolerating one's husband, and the sort of
friends and the sort of existence that appeals to one's husband,
unless one is utterly ox-like--and I'm not. Women have lived with men
they cared nothing for since the beginning of time, I suppose, because
of various reasons--but I see no reason why I should. I'm a rebel--in
full revolt against shams and stupidity and ignorance, because those
three have brought me where I am and you where you are. I'm a disarmed
and helpless _revolte_ by myself. One doesn't want to go from bad to
worse. One wants instinctively to progress from good to better. One
makes mistakes and seeks to rectify them--if it is possible. One sees
suffering arise as the result of one's involuntary acts, and one
wishes wistfully to relieve it. That's the simple truth, Robin. Only a
simple truth is often a very complex thing. It seems so with us."

"It is," Hollister muttered, "and it might easily become more so."

"Ah, well," she said, "that is scarcely likely. You were always pretty
dependable, Robin. And I'm no longer an ignorant little fool to rush
thoughtlessly in where either angels or devils might fear to tread. We
shall see."

She swung around on her heel. Hollister watched her walk away along
the river path. He scarcely knew what he thought, what he felt, except
that what he felt and thought disturbed him to the point of sadness,
of regret. He sat musing on the curious, contradictory forces at work
in his life. It was folly to be wise, to be sensitive, to respond too
quickly, to see too clearly; and ignorance, dumbness of soul, was also
fatal. Either way there was no escape. A man did his best and it was
futile,--or seemed so to him, just then.

His gaze followed Myra while his thought ran upon Doris, upon his boy,
wondering if the next steamer would bring him sentence of banishment
from all that he valued, or if there would be a respite, a stay of
execution, a miracle of affection that would survive and override the
terrible reality--or what seemed to him the terrible reality--of his
disfigured face. He had abundant faith in Doris--of the soft voice and
the keen, quick mind, the indomitable spirit and infinite
patience--but he had not much faith in himself, in his own power. He
was afraid of her restored sight, which would leave nothing to the
subtle play of her imagination.

And following Myra with that mechanical noting