that he should be moved to
such a transport of bitterness by hearing that she had cried over telling
a lie for him. Yet that was it; she was sure that he had not cared
whether Marchmont saw her crying or not. The tears themselves made him
think that she had wished him dead, yes, that she still wished him dead.

He must not die thinking that. She started across the room towards the
door, at a quick step; it was in her mind to follow him and tell him
again that it was not true, that he would ruin and empty her life if he
died, that there was no man in the world who could be what he was to her.
But her impulse failed her; he would sneer again. There was one thing
that would drive away his sneer if she said it and got him to believe
it--that she loved him as he loved her. Well, she couldn't tell him that,
and he would not believe her if she did. She stopped and returned to her
chair. She leant back now, resting her head on the cushion. The afternoon
grew old, and a gleam of sinking sun, escaping from the grey red-edged
clouds that hung over the river, troubled her eyes; she closed them and
reclined in stillness. She felt very tired, worn out with the stress of
it, with the conflict and the strain. Strange notions, half fancies, half
dreams, began to flit through her mind. She saw the end come in many
ways, now while they were alone together, now in some public place, even
in the House, or while he addressed his shareholders. She seemed to hear
the buzz of talk that followed the event, the wonder at him, the blame of
her; she saw poor old Aunt Maria's trembling hands and hopeless face.
Presently, as she fell into an unquiet drowsiness, she seemed to see even
beyond the end, as though the end were no end and he were with her still,
his spirit being about her, enveloping her, still wrapping her round so
that the rest of the world was kept away and she was still with him,
though she could not see him nor hear his voice. For her alone he existed
now. Soon the rest who had wondered and praised and blamed and gossipped
forgot about him; they had no more attention to give him, no more
flattery, no more allegiance. For them he had ceased to exist. Only for
her he went on existing still, nay, it seemed that it was through her
that he clung to the life he had loved, and was even now not dead because
he lived in and through her. And sometimes--she shivered in her broken
sleep, for she had not the love which would have made the dream all