Owen to avoid
churches, priests--all that reminded her of religion. He had begged that
until she was firm in her agnosticism she should not expose herself to
influences which could but result in mental distress, and without any
practical issue unless to separate them. She had escaped once; next time
he might find it more difficult to win her back. How kind he was. He had
not said a word about his own suffering.

It had happened nearly three years ago in Florence, and an accident had
brought it all about. One afternoon she was walking in the streets; she
could still see the deep cornices showing distinct against the sky; she
was admiring them when suddenly a church appeared; she could not tell
how it was, but she had been propelled to enter.... A feeling which had
arisen out of her heart, a sort of yearning--that was it. The church was
almost empty; how restful it had seemed that afternoon, the rough
plastered walls and the two figures of the nuns absorbed in prayer. Her
heart had begun to ache, and her daily life with its riches and glories
had seemed to concern her no longer. It was as if the light had changed,
and she had become suddenly aware of her real self. A tall cross stood
oddly placed between the arches; she had not seen it at first, but as
her eyes rested upon it she had been drawn into wistful communion with
her dying Redeemer. And all that had seemed false suddenly became true,
and she had left the church overcome with remorse. That night her door
was closed to Owen; she had pleaded indisposition, unable for some shame
to speak the truth. On the next day and the day after the desire of
forgiveness had sent her to the church and then to the priest, but the
priest had refused her absolution till she separated from her lover. She
had felt that she must obey. She had written a note--she could not think
of it now--so cruel did it seem, yet at the time it had seemed quite
natural. It was not until the next day, and the day after was worse
still, that she began to plumb the depths of her own unhappiness; every
day it seemed to grow deeper. She could not keep him out of her mind.
She used to sit and try to do needlework in the hotel sitting-room. But
how often had she had to put it down and to walk to the window to hide
her tears? As the time drew near for her to go to the theatre, she had
to vow not to cry again till she got home. He was always in his
box--once she had nearly broken down, and, pitying her, he came