stand; and she
never allowed herself to be startled. The most singular occurrences,
immediately they touched her, were somehow transformed into credible
daily, customary events. Thus the disaster of the brewery! She had
accepted it as though the ruins of breweries were a spectacle to be
witnessed at every street-corner.

Yes, he should tell her. Three minutes ago he had no intention of
telling her, or any one, anything. He decided in an instant. To tell her
his secret would lead up naturally to the picture which he had just
finished.

"I say, Alice," he said, "I want to talk to you."

"Well," she said, "I wish you'd talk to me sitting down. I don't know
what's come over you this last day or two."

He sat down. He did not feel really intimate with her at that moment.
And their marriage seemed to him, in a way, artificial, scarcely a fact.
He did not know that it takes years to accomplish full intimacy between
husband and wife.

"You know," he said, "Henry Leek isn't my real name."

"Oh, isn't it?" she said. "What does that matter?"

She was not in the least surprised to hear that Henry Leek was not his
real name. She was a wise woman, and knew the strangeness of the world.
And she had married him simply because he was himself, because he
existed in a particular manner (whose charm for her she could not have
described) from hour to hour.

"So long as you haven't committed a murder or anything," she added, with
her tranquil smile.

"My real name is Priam Farll," he said gruffly. The gruffness was caused
by timidity.

"I thought Priam Farll was your gentleman's name."

"To tell you the truth," he said nervously, "there was a mistake. That
photograph that was sent to you was my photograph."

"Yes," she said. "I know it was. And what of it?"

"I mean," he blundered on, "it was my valet that died--not me. You see,
the doctor, when he came, thought that Leek was me, and I didn't tell
him differently, because I was afraid of all the bother. I just let it
slide--and there were other reasons. You know how I am...."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Can't you understand? It's simple enough. I'm Priam Farll, and I had a
valet named Henry Leek, and he died, and they thought it was me. Only it
wasn't."

He saw her face change and then compose itself.

"Then it's this Henry Leek that is buried in Westminster Abbey, instead
of you?" Her voice was very soft and soothing. And the astonishing woma