self and her
child, between herself and her past life, it was terrible to her. If she
had ever been certain of anything in her life, it had been that such a
step was impossible. Marriage, for her who was already married; a new
life to come in place of the old; a state of affairs in which Geoff
should no longer be first, in which, in fact, it would be better, an
ease to her, that Geoff should be away! Oh, horrible thought! an ease to
her to be without Geoff! She had lived for him, she had said and felt
that he was everything to her, the sole object of her love and her life.
And now he was an embarrassment, and it would be well for her if he
could be got away.

In this confusion of mind mingled with impulses to flight, with impulses
of going and throwing herself on Theo's mercy, begging him to give her
up, for she could not do it, the day passed. Geoff clung to her and
talked, talked incessantly all the day through, giving her his opinions
about Theo as well as about everything else; and she listened hearing
some things--that most distinctly as it may be believed--but not all,
nor near all; weary, was it possible? of her own child; of the ceaseless
voice in her ears. She was conscious of urging him to go to bed, as
she would not have thought of doing in other circumstances; urging him
against his will, telling him that he was getting later and later,
that it made him pale and nervous, that he must go--all because she was
anxious to escape, because she had promised to meet---- Could a woman
sink into lower humiliation, a woman, a mother, not a foolish girl? At
last she could escape breathlessly, tying a black veil over her head;
stealing out, saying a nervous word to Soames about the beautiful
moonlight. Even Soames had to see her humiliation. She had to linger,
as if she were looking at the moonlight, while Soames stood upon the
steps--and with shame and confusion to cross the space before the door,
which was all one flood of light marked only by her little shadow, small
and clinging to her feet. She could have wished that there should never
be moonlight more, so shamed and mortified and humiliated did she feel.
The darkness would have been better; the darkness would have hidden her
at least. In this condition of shame and pain she went along, gliding
into what shadow the young trees could throw, brushing against the
bushes underneath. And then suddenly, all in a moment, there was calm;
ah, more than calm, a refuge from a