t, the decisions that were
arrived at as to its course--all these things were now most pitifully
pathetic to Catherine. As she watched Mark and Berrand, as she listened
to them, she seemed to watch and listen to children, playing idly,
chattering idly, on the edge of events that must stop their play, their
chatter--perhaps for ever.

For this book would never see the light. No one would ever read it. No
one would ever speak of it but these two men, whose lives seemed bound
up in it. And Catherine alone knew this.

Sometimes she had a longing to tell them of this knowledge, to say to
Mark, "Do not waste yourself in this useless energy!" to say to Berrand,
"Do not rejoice over the future of that which has no future." But she
refrained, knowing that to speak would be to give the lie to what she
spoke. For such revelation must frustrate her contemplated action. So
nobody knew what she knew, except the spirit that stood by her in the
night. She waited, and the book drew slowly towards its climax and its
close. As Berrand grew more excited about it he spoke more of it to
Catherine. But Mark--conscious of that veil dropped between him and his
wife--scarcely mentioned it to her, and declined to read any passages
from it aloud. Catherine understood that he distrusted her and knew her
utterly unsympathetic and adverse to his labours. The sign for which she
had hoped, which she had once most confidently expected, did not come.
And at length she almost ceased to think of it, and was inclined to put
the idea from her as a foolish dream.

The burden of action was, it seemed, to be laid upon her. She would
accept it calmly, dutifully. So the summer waned, drawing towards
autumn. The atmosphere grew heavy and mellow. The garden was languid
with its weight of bearing plants and with its fruits. Mists rose at
evening in the woods, clouding the trunks of the trees, and spreading
melancholy as a sad tale that floats, like a mist, over those who hear
it. And, one day, the book was finished.

Berrand came to tell Catherine. He was radiant. While he spoke he never
noticed that she closed her hands tightly as one who prepares to face an
enemy.

"We are going to London this afternoon," he added. "Mark must see his
publisher."

"He is taking up the manuscript?" said Catherine hastily.

"No, no. There are one or two finishing touches to be put. But he must
arrange about the date of publishing. He will return by the midnight
train, but I