as drawn as if
he were being strangled.

"I mean never," she said, out of some far self which spoke
for once beyond her.

His drawn, strangled face watched her blankly for a few
moments, then a strange sound took place in his throat. She
started, came to herself, and, horrified, saw him. His head made
a queer motion, the chin jerked back against the throat, the
curious, crowing, hiccupping sound came again, his face twisted
like insanity, and he was crying, crying blind and twisted as if
something were broken which kept him in control.

"Tony--don't," she cried, starting up.

It tore every one of her nerves to see him. He made groping
movements to get out of his chair. But he was crying
uncontrollably, noiselessly, with his face twisted like a mask,
contorted and the tears running down the amazing grooves in his
cheeks. Blindly, his face always this horrible working mask, he
groped for his hat, for his way down from the terrace. It was
eight o'clock, but still brightly light. The other people were
staring. In great agitation, part of which was exasperation, she
stayed behind, paid the waiter with a half-sovereign, took her
yellow silk coat, then followed Skrebensky.

She saw him walking with brittle, blind steps along the path
by the river. She could tell by the strange stiffness and
brittleness of his figure that he was still crying. Hurrying
after him, running, she took his arm.

"Tony," she cried, "don't! Why are you like this? What are
you doing this for? Don't. It's not necessary."

He heard, and his manhood was cruelly, coldly defaced. Yet it
was no good. He could not gain control of his face. His face,
his breast, were weeping violently, as if automatically. His
will, his knowledge had nothing to do with it. He simply could
not stop.

She walked holding his arm, silent with exasperation and
perplexity and pain. He took the uncertain steps of a blind man,
because his mind was blind with weeping.

"Shall we go home? Shall we have a taxi?" she said.

He could pay no attention. Very flustered, very agitated, she
signalled indefinitely to a taxi-cab that was going slowly by.
The driver saluted and drew up. She opened the door and pushed
Skrebensky in, then took her own place. Her face was uplifted,
the mouth closed down, she looked hard and cold and ashamed. She
winced as the driver's dark red face was thrust round upon her,
a full-blooded, animal face with black eyebrows and a thick,
short-cut mousta