nd lay there without consciousness.

She broke from her tense cramp of agony gradually, though
each movement was a goad of heavy pain. Gradually, she lifted
her dead body from the sands, and rose at last. There was now no
moon for her, no sea. All had passed away. She trailed her dead
body to the house, to her room, where she lay down inert.

Morning brought her a new access of superficial life. But all
within her was cold, dead, inert. Skrebensky appeared at
breakfast. He was white and obliterated. They did not look at
each other nor speak to each other. Apart from the ordinary,
trivial talk of civil people, they were separate, they did not
speak of what was between them during the remaining two days of
their stay. They were like two dead people who dare not
recognize, dare not see each other.

Then she packed her bag and put on her things. There were
several guests leaving together, for the same train. He would
have no opportunity to speak to her.

He tapped at her bedroom door at the last minute. She stood
with her umbrella in her hand. He closed the door. He did not
know what to say.

"Have you done with me?" he asked her at length, lifting his
head.

"It isn't me," she said. "You have done with me--we have
done with each other."

He looked at her, at the closed face, which he thought so
cruel. And he knew he could never touch her again. His will was
broken, he was seared, but he clung to the life of his body.

"Well, what have I done?" he asked, in a rather querulous
voice.

"I don't know," she said, in the same dull, feelingless
voice. "It is finished. It had been a failure."

He was silent. The words still burned his bowels.

"Is it my fault?" he said, looking up at length, challenging
the last stroke.

"You couldn't----" she began. But she broke
down.

He turned away, afraid to hear more. She began to gather her
bag, her handkerchief, her umbrella. She must be gone now. He
was waiting for her to be gone.

At length the carriage came and she drove away with the rest.
When she was out of sight, a great relief came over him, a
pleasant banality. In an instant, everything was obliterated. He
was childishly amiable and companionable all the day long. He
was astonished that life could be so nice. It was better than it
had been before. What a simple thing it was to be rid of her!
How friendly and simple everything felt to him. What false thing
had she been forcing on him?

But at night he dared