ad you've come back."

"Walter--have you any idea why I went away?"

"Why you went? Obviously, it was the best thing you could do."

"It was the only thing I could do. And I am glad I did it. My mind has
become clearer."

"_I_ see. I thought it would."

"It would not have been clear if I had stayed."

"No," he said vaguely, "of course it wouldn't."

"I've seen," she continued, "that there is nothing for me but to come
back. It is the right thing."

"Did you doubt it?"

"Yes. I even doubted whether it were possible--whether, in the
circumstances, I could bear to come back, to stay--"

"Do you mean--to--the house?"

"No. I mean--to you."

He turned away. "I understand," he said. "So it came to that?"

"Yes. It came to that. I've been here three hours; and up to the last
hour, I was not sure whether I would not pack the rest of my things and
go away. I had written a letter to you. There it is, under your arm."

"Am I to read it?"

"Yes."

He turned his back on her, and read the letter.

"I see. You say here you want a separation. If you want it you shall have
it. But hadn't you better hear what I have to say, _first_?"

"I've come back for that. What have you to say?"

He bowed his head upon his breast.

"Not very much, I'm afraid. Except that I'm sorry--and ashamed of
myself--and--I ask your forgiveness. What more can I say?"

"What more indeed? I'm to understand, then, that everything I was told is
true?"

"It _was_ true."

"And is not now?"

"No. Whoever told you, omitted to tell you that."

"You mean you have given up living with this woman?"

"Yes. If you call it living with her."

"You have given it up--for how long?"

"About five weeks." His voice was almost inaudible.

She winced. Five weeks back brought her to the date of Peggy's death.

"I dare say," she said. "You could hardly--have done less in the
circumstances."

"Anne," he said. "I gave it up--I broke it off--before that. I--I broke
with her that morning--before I heard."

"You were away that night."

"I was not with her."

"Well--And it was going on, all the time, for three years before that?"

"Yes."

"Ever since your sister's death?"

He did not answer.

"Ever since Edie died," she repeated, as if to herself rather than to
him.

"Not quite. Why don't you say--since you sent me away?"

"When did I ever send you away?"

"That night. When I came to you."

She remembered.

"Then? Walter, that is unfo