unconscious of the other.
I had thought nothing; I had said such an extraordinary thing. I don't
know that analysis of my own psychology matters at all to this story.
I should say that it didn't or, at any rate, that I had given enough of
it. But that odd remark of mine had a strong influence upon what came
after. I mean, that Leonora would probably never have spoken to me at
all about Florence's relations with Edward if I hadn't said, two hours
after my wife's death:

"Now I can marry the girl."

She had, then, taken it for granted that I had been suffering all that
she had been suffering, or, at least, that I had permitted all that she
had permitted. So that, a month ago, about a week after the funeral of
poor Edward, she could say to me in the most natural way in the world--I
had been talking about the duration of my stay at Branshaw--she said
with her clear, reflective intonation:

"Oh, stop here for ever and ever if you can." And then she added, "You
couldn't be more of a brother to me, or more of a counsellor, or more of
a support. You are all the consolation I have in the world. And isn't
it odd to think that if your wife hadn't been my husband's mistress, you
would probably never have been here at all?"

That was how I got the news--full in the face, like that. I didn't say
anything and I don't suppose I felt anything, unless maybe it was with
that mysterious and unconscious self that underlies most people. Perhaps
one day when I am unconscious or walking in my sleep I may go and spit
upon poor Edward's grave. It seems about the most unlikely thing I could
do; but there it is. No, I remember no emotion of any sort, but just the
clear feeling that one has from time to time when one hears that some
Mrs So-and-So is au mieux with a certain gentleman. It made things
plainer, suddenly, to my curiosity. It was as if I thought, at that
moment, of a windy November evening, that, when I came to think it over
afterwards, a dozen unexplained things would fit themselves into place.
But I wasn't thinking things over then. I remember that distinctly. I
was just sitting back, rather stiffly, in a deep arm-chair. That is what
I remember. It was twilight.

Branshaw Manor lies in a little hollow with lawns across it and
pine-woods on the fringe of the dip. The immense wind, coming from
across the forest, roared overhead. But the view from the window was
perfectly quiet and grey. Not a thing stirred, except a couple of
rabbi