erstand you."

"Nor I you. You think I'm always wanting something. What is it that you
think I want?"

"Well--do you remember Westleydale?"

She drew back. "Westleydale? What has put that into your head?"

He grew desperate under her evasions, and plunged into his theme. "Well,
that jolly baby we saw there--in the wood--you looked so happy when you
grabbed it, and I thought, perhaps--"

"There's no use talking about that," said she. "I don't like it."

"All right--only--it's still a little soon, you know, isn't it, to give
it up?"

"You're quite mistaken," she said coldly. "It isn't that. It never has
been. If I want anything, Walter, that you haven't given me, it's
something that you cannot give me. I've long ago made up my mind to
that."

"But why make up your mind to anything? How do you know I can't give it
you--whatever it is--if you won't tell me anything about it? What _do_
you want, dear?"

"Ah, my dear, I want nothing, except not to have to feel like this."

"What do you feel like?"

"Like what I am. A stranger in my husband's house."

"And is that my fault?" he asked gently.

"It is not mine. But there it is. I feel sometimes as if I'd never been
married to you. That's why you must never talk to me as you did just
now."

"Good God, what a thing to say!"

He hid his face in his hands. The pain she had inflicted would have been
unbearable but for the light that was in him.

He rose to leave her. But before he left, he took one long, scrutinising
look at her. It struck him that she was not, at the moment, entirely
responsible for her utterances. And again his light helped him.

"Look here," said he, "I don't think you're feeling very well. This isn't
exactly a joyous life for you."

"I want no other," said she.

"You don't know what you want. You're overstrained--frightfully--and
you ought to have a long rest and a change. You're too good, you know,
to my little sister. I've told you before that I won't allow you to
sacrifice yourself to her. I shall get some one to come and stay, and I
shall take you down this week to the south coast, or wherever you like to
go. It'll do you all the good in the world to get away from this beastly
place for a month or two."

"It'll do me no good to get away from poor Edie."

"It will, dearest, it will, really."

"It will not. If you go and take me away from Edie I shall get ill
myself."

"You only think so because you're ill already."

"I am not i