he report of his death--perhaps, like himself, had bought a
paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read it.

She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had pined to
be free of--and taking in all the tremendous significance of this, he
longed to cry: "Take your hated body, that I love, out of my house! Take
away that pitiful white face, so cruel and soft--before I crush it. Get
out of my sight; never let me see you again!"

And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move
away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was fighting to
awake--rise and go out into the dark and cold, without a thought of him,
without so much as the knowledge of his presence.

Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, "No; stay
there!" And turning away from her, he sat down in his accustomed chair
on the other side of the hearth.

They sat in silence.

And Soames thought: 'Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? What have
I done? It is not my fault!'

Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and dying,
whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from it, whose
poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, soft, unseeing
look, taking farewell of all that is good--of the sun, and the air, and
its mate.

So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side of the
hearth.

And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, seemed to
grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no longer. And going
out into the hall he flung the door wide, to gulp down the cold air that
came in; then without hat or overcoat went out into the Square.

Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way towards
him, and Soames thought: 'Suffering! when will it cease, my suffering?'

At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance named
Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of 'I am master here.' And
Soames walked on.

From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and Irene had
been married were pealing in 'practice' for the advent of Christ, the
chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He felt a craving for
strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or rouse him to fury. If only
he could burst out of himself, out of this web that for the first
time in his life he felt around him. If only he could surrender to the
thought: 'Divorce her--turn her out! She has forgotten you. Forget her!'

If