ing at him with an exquisite
tenderness. The tears were streaming down her cheeks. They were wet on
his own. Another moment and Robert would have lost the only clew which
remained to him through the mists of this bewildering world. He would
have yielded again as he had many times yielded before, for infinitely
less reason, to the urgent pressure of another's individuality, and
having jeopardized love for truth, he would now have murdered--or tried
to murder--in himself, the sense of truth, for love.

But he did neither.

Holding her close pressed against him, he said in breaks of intense
speech: 'If you wish, Catherine, I will wait--I will wait till you bid
me speak--but I warn you--there is something dead in me--something gone
and broken. It can never live again--except in forms which now it would
only pain you more to think of. It is not that I think differently of
this point or that point--but of life and religion altogether.--I see
God's purposes in quite other proportions as it were.--Christianity
seems to me something small and local.--Behind it, around it--including
it--I see the great drama of the world, sweeping on--led by God--from
change to change, from act to act. It is not that Christianity is false,
but that it is only an imperfect human reflection of a part of truth.
Truth has never been, can never be, contained in any one creed or
system!'

She heard, but through her exhaustion, through the bitter sinking of
hope, she only half understood. Only she realized that she and he were
alike helpless--both struggling in the grip of some force outside of
themselves, inexorable, ineluctable.

Robert felt her arms relaxing, felt the dead weight of her form against
him. He raised her to her feet, he half carried her to the door, and on
to the stairs. She was nearly fainting, but her will held her at bay.
He threw open the door of their room, led her in, lifted
her--unresisting--on to the bed. Then her head fell to one side, and her
lips grew ashen. In an instant or two he had done for her all that his
medical knowledge could suggest with rapid, decided hands. She was not
quite unconscious; she drew up round her, as though with a strong vague
sense of chill the shawl he laid over her, and gradually the slightest
shade of color came back to her lips. But as soon as she opened her eyes
and met those of Robert fixed upon her, the heavy lids dropped again.

'Would you rather be alone?' he said to her, kneeling besid