Hubert did not answer, and
a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face.

'Why don't you answer me?'

'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added,
'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and
sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish
lying on his heart.

Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am very
sorry; I wish I could help you. I know how it tears the heart when one
cannot get out what one has in one's brain.'

Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. What
he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'Never
mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it;
I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him the sympathy he
wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go to bed; he sat
looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was no more than a
faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat
thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked into the
future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had applied to him
before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up and down,
maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into
his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long
after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion
brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed.

VI

'What will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and bacon?'

'No, no!'

'Well, then, 'ave a chop?'

'No, no!'

'Ye must 'ave something.'

'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.'

'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent
you down these 'ere papers.'

The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his
pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands,
he selected the inevitable paper.

'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed
mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity,
and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have
been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love
each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will
deny. With the divorce court before our eyes,