rcher said nothing. It seemed to him so natural--however tragic--that
money ill-gotten should be cruelly expiated, that his mind, hardly
lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom, wandered back to closer questions.
What was the meaning of May's blush when the Countess Olenska had been
mentioned?

Four months had passed since the midsummer day that he and Madame
Olenska had spent together; and since then he had not seen her. He
knew that she had returned to Washington, to the little house which she
and Medora Manson had taken there: he had written to her once--a few
words, asking when they were to meet again--and she had even more
briefly replied: "Not yet."

Since then there had been no farther communication between them, and he
had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned
among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the
scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he
brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him,
his judgments and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual
life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency,
blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view
as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own
room. Absent--that was what he was: so absent from everything most
densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him
to find they still imagined he was there.

He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearing his throat preparatory to
farther revelations.

"I don't know, of course, how far your wife's family are aware of what
people say about--well, about Madame Olenska's refusal to accept her
husband's latest offer."

Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquely continued: "It's a
pity--it's certainly a pity--that she refused it."

"A pity? In God's name, why?"

Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the unwrinkled sock that joined it
to a glossy pump.

"Well--to put it on the lowest ground--what's she going to live on now?"

"Now--?"

"If Beaufort--"

Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on the black walnut-edge of the
writing-table. The wells of the brass double-inkstand danced in their
sockets.

"What the devil do you mean, sir?"

Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in his chair, turned a tranquil
gaze on the young man's burning face.

"Well--I have it on pretty good authority--in fact, on old Catherine's