a sentence or so she did
not realize the nature of his change. Her mind remained glowing with her
distressed acceptance of his magnificent nobility.

"I can't," he said.

He flung off his surrenders as a savage might fling off a garment.

"When I think of his children," he said.

"When I think of the world filled by his children, the children you have
borne him--and I--forbidden almost to touch your hand!"

And flying into a passion Mr. Brumley shouted "No!"

"Not even to touch your hand!"

"I won't do it," he assured her. "I won't do it. If I cannot be your
lover--I will go away. I will never see you again. I will do
anything--anything, rather than suffer this degradation. I will go
abroad. I will go to strange places. I will aviate. I will kill
myself--or anything, but I won't endure this. I won't. You see, you ask
too much, you demand more than flesh and blood can stand. I've done my
best to bring myself to it and I can't. I won't have that--that----"

He waved his trembling fingers in the air. He was absolutely unable to
find an epithet pointed enough and bitter enough to stab into the memory
of the departed knight. He thought of him as marble, enthroned at Kensal
Green, with a false dignity, a false serenity, and intolerable triumph.
He wanted something, some monosyllable to expound and strip all that,
some lung-filling sky-splitting monosyllable that one could shout. His
failure increased his exasperation.

"I won't have him grinning, at me," he said at last. "And so, it's one
thing or the other. There's no other choice. But I know your choice. I
see your choice. It's good-bye--and why--why shouldn't I go now?"

He waved his arms about. He was pitifully ridiculous. His face puckered
as an ill-treated little boy's might do. This time it wasn't just the
pathetic twinge that had broken his voice before; he found himself to
his own amazement on the verge of loud, undignified, childish weeping.
He was weeping passionately and noisily; he was over the edge of it, and
it was too late to snatch himself back. The shame which could not
constrain him, overcame him. A preposterous upward gesture of the hands
expressed his despair. And abruptly this unhappy man of letters turned
from her and fled, the most grief-routed of creatures, whooping and
sobbing along a narrow pathway through the trees.

Sec.8

He left behind him an exceedingly distressed and astonished lady. She
had stood with her eyes opening wider a