pleasure to see me suffer," he said. "Please go
away."

"How can I leave you like this?"

There was despair in her voice, and the sound of tears that would never
come to her eyes. He did not answer. She would not go away without
trying to appease him, and she made a strong effort to collect her
thoughts.

"You are angry with me, of course," she began. "You despise me for not
having known my own mind, but you cannot say anything that I have not
said to myself. I ought to have known long ago. All I can say in
self-defence now is that it is better to have told you the truth before
we were married than to have been obliged to confess it afterwards, or
else to have lied to you all my life if I could not find courage to
speak. It is better, is it not? Oh, say that it is better!"

"It would have been much better if neither of us had ever been born,"
Guido answered.

"I only ask you to say that you would rather be suffering now than have
had me tell you in a year that I was an unfaithful wife at heart. That
is all. Will you not say it? It is all I ask."

"Why should you ask anything of me, even that? The only kindness you can
show me now is to go away."

He would not look at her. His throat was parched, and he put out his
hand to take the tumbler from the little table on the other side of his
long chair. Instantly she rose and tried to help him, but he would not
let her.

"I am not so weak as that," he said coldly. "My hand is steady enough,
thank you."

She sighed and drew back. Perhaps it would be better to leave him, as he
wished that she should, but his words recalled Lamberti's warning; his
hand was steady, he said, and that meant that it was steady enough to
take the pistol from the drawer in the little table and use it. He
believed in nothing, in no future, in no retribution, in no God, and he
was ill, lonely, and in despair through her fault. His friend knew him,
and the danger was real. The conviction flashed through her brain that
if she left him alone he would probably kill himself, and she fancied
him lying there dead, on the red tiles. She fancied, too, Lamberti's
face, when he should come to tell her what had happened, for he would
surely come, and to the end of her life and his he would never forgive
her.

She stood still, wavering and unstrung by her thoughts, looking steadily
down at Guido's head.

"Since you will not go away," he said at last, "answer me one question.
Tell me the name of the m