y
I have felt differently. My nerves have been restrung. Something
ironically vulgar, sordidly tragic has seemed to creep into my relations
with Judith.

To my great surprise Judith brought her answer in person this evening.
It is the first time she has entered my house; and her first words, as
she looked all around her with a wistful smile referred to the fact.

"It is almost just as I have pictured it--and I have pictured it--do you
know how often?"

She was calmer, if not happier. The haggard expression had given place
to one of resignation. I wheeled an arm-chair close to the fire, for she
was cold, and she sank into it with a sigh of weariness. I knelt beside
her. She drew off her gloves and put one hand on my head in the old way.
The touch brought me great comfort. I thought that we had reached the
quiet haven at last.

"So you have come to me, Judith," I whispered.

"I have come, dear," she said, "to tell you that I can't come."

My heart sank.

"Why?" I asked.

We fenced a little. She gave half reasons, womanlike, of which I proved
the inadequacy. I recapitulated the arguments I had used in my letter.
She met them with hints and vague allusions. At last she cut the knot.

"I am going back to my husband."

I rose to my feet and echud the words. She repeated them in a tone so
mournfully distinct, that they had the finality of a death-knell. I had
nothing to say.

"Before we part I must make my peace with you, Marcus," she said. "I
have suddenly developed a conscience. I always had the germs of it."

"You were always the best and dearest woman in the world," I cried.

"And I betrayed you, dear. That letter from Pasquale told me about his
flight with Carlotta. I lied to you--but I was in a state bordering on
madness."

I rested my elbow on the mantel-piece and looked down on her. She
appeared so sweet and fragile, like a piece of Dresden china, incapable
of base actions. As I did not speak she went on: "I did not mean to play
into Pasquale's hands, Marcus. Heaven knows I didn't--but I did play
into them. Do you remember that awful night and our talk the next
morning? I asked you not to see her all day--to mourn our dead love. I
knew you would keep your promise. You are a man of sensitive honour. If
all men were like you, the world would be a beautiful place."

"It would go to smash in a few weeks through universal incompetence," I
murmured, with some bitterness.

"There would be no meanness and