sphemous in the room which held her beauty.

She put her garments on, one by one. Her husband continued in his
bestial indifference, and dropped back into his reflections.

She went to the mirror over the mantelpiece with toilet articles spread
out before her. Probably the mirror in the washroom was too small.

While keeping on with her toilet, she spoke as if to herself in a gay,
animated, chatty way, because it was still the springtime of the day.
She gave herself careful attention and took much time to groom herself.
But this was an important matter, and the time was not lost. Besides,
she was really hurrying.

Now she went to a wardrobe and took out a light dress of delicate
texture, which she held out in her arms carefully.

She started to put the dress on, then an idea suddenly occurred to her
and she stopped.

"No, no, no, decidedly not," she said.

She put the dress back and looked for another one, a dark skirt and a
blouse.

She took a hat, fluffed the ribbon a bit, then held the trimming of
roses close to her face in front of the mirror. Then she began to
sing, evidently satisfied.

. . . . .

He did not look at her, and when he did look at her, he did not see
her.

It was a solemn spectacle, a drama, but a drama dismal and depressing.
That man was not happy, and yet I envied him his happiness. How
explain this except by the fact that happiness is within us, within
each of us, and is the desire for what we do not possess?

These two were together, but in reality far apart. They had left each
other without leaving each other. A sort of intrigue about nothing
held them together. They would never come nearer again, for between
them lay the impassable barrier of love over and done with. This
silence and this mutual ignorance are the cruelest things in the world.
To cease to love is worse than to hate, for say what you will, death is
worse than suffering.

I am sorry for the men and women who go through life together in the
chains of indifference. I am sorry for the poor heart that has what it
has for so short a time. I am sorry for the men who have the heart not
to love any more.

And for a moment, seeing this simple harrowing scene, I underwent a
little of the enormous suffering of those innumerable people who suffer
all.

. . . . .

Amy finished dressing. She put on a coat to match her skirt, leaving
it partly open to show her transparent flesh-coloured lingerie waist.
Then she