d._" What she had said had been
neither well thought out nor kind, but the temptation had been
overwhelming. For the instant it had seemed secondary that Thor hadn't
taken Rosie to the West, since Claude, who knew so much more of the
inner history of the episode than she did herself, had thought such an
action possible. More clearly than ever before she saw that some
appalling struggle for the possession of the little creature must have
taken place, and that it had been going on during those months when life
was apparently so peaceful and she had been living in her fool's
paradise. It was not till he had lost the fight that Thor had come to
her in the snow-bound woods with the twitter of birds and the deep music
of the tree-tops accompanying those half-truths she had been eager to
believe. She herself had been fatuous and vain in assuming that he could
love her; but if there was little to say for her, there was nothing at
all to be said for him. He had been the more false for the reason that,
as far as he went, he had been sincere. It was his very sincerity that
had tricked her. Less than at any time since the day when he had
stammered out his futile explanations did she feel it possible to pardon
him.

But there was something else. Now, if she chose, she could _know_. In
his present state of mind Claude would betray anything. She had only to
question him, to throw the emphasis adroitly here or there, and the
whole story would come out. It was like having a key come into her
hands--a key that would unlock all those mysteries which were her
terror. She was still irresolute, however, as to using it after she had
taken an old opera-cloak from a wardrobe, thrown it over her shoulders,
and gone down=stairs again.

She found Claude as she had left him--astride on the deck-chair, his
face in his hands, the burning end of the cigar that protruded between
his fingers making a point of light. The abject attitude moved her to
pity in spite of everything. She herself remained standing, her tall
figure thrown into dim relief between two of the white Corinthian
pillars of the portico. By standing, it seemed to her obscurely, she
could more easily escape if any such awful revelation as she was afraid
of were to spring on her against her will. She could almost feel it
waiting for her in the depths of the heavy-scented darkness.

For the minute, however, the folly of Claude's return was the matter
immediately to be dealt with; to get