ve drawn her to him and comforted her, and reasoned with her till
he had made her see the senselessness of her idea. Maggie would have
listened to reason--his reason. Anne never would.

She had been cold and slow, and implacably deliberate. It was not blind
instinct, but illuminated reason that had told her what to say and when
to say it. Nothing he could ever do or say would make her take back her
words. And if she took back her words, her thought would remain
indestructible. She would never give it up; she would never approach him
without it; she would never forget that it was there. It would always
rise up between them, unburied, unappeased.

His brain swam and clouded again. He went again to the dining-room and
drank more whiskey. Kate was in the dining-room and she saw him drinking.
He saw Kate looking at him; but he didn't care. He was past caring for
what anybody might think of him.

His brain was clearer than ever now. He realised Anne's omnipotence to
harm him. He saw the hard, imperishable divinity in her. His wife was a
spiritual woman. He had not always known what that meant. But he knew
now; and now for the first time in his life he judged her. For the first
time in his life his heart rose in a savage revolt against her power.

His head grew hot. The air of the study was stifling. He opened the
window and went out into the cool, dark garden. He paced up and down,
heedless of where he trod, trampling the flowerless plants down into
their black beds. At the end of the path a little circle of white stones
glimmered in the dark. That was Peggy's garden.

An agony of love and grief shook him as he thought of the dead child.

He thought, with his hot brain, of Anne, and his anger flared like hate.
It was through the child that she had always struck him. She was a fool
to refuse to have more children, to sacrifice her boundless opportunities
to strike.

There was a light in the upper window. He thought of Maggie, walking up
and down in the back alley behind the garden, watching the lights of his
house burning to the dawn. The little thing had loved him. She had given
him all she had to give; and he had given her nothing. He had compelled
her to live childless; and he had cast her off. She had been sacrificed
to his passion, and to his wife's coldness.

Up there he could see Anne's large shadow moving on the lighted
window-blind. She was dressing for dinner.

Kate was standing on the step, looking for him.