day and the day before I'd been making up my mind to do the thing.

"I want to tell you something," I said. "I wish you'd sit down for

a moment or so."…

Once I had begun, it seemed to me I had to go through with it.

Something in the quality of my voice gave her an intimation of

unusual gravity. She looked at me steadily for a moment and sat

down slowly in my armchair.

"What is it?" she said.

I went on awkwardly. "I've got to tell you-something

extraordinarily distressing," I said.

She was manifestly altogether unaware.

"There seems to be a good deal of scandal abroad-I've only recently

heard of it-about myself-and Isabel."

"Isabel!"

I nodded.

"What do they say?" she asked.

It was difficult, I found, to speak.

"They say she's my mistress."

"Oh! How abominable!"

She spoke with the most natural indignation. Our eyes met.

"We've been great friends," I said.

"Yes. And to make THAT of it. My poor dear! But how can they?"

She paused and looked at me. It's so incredible. How can any one

believe it? I couldn't."

She stopped, with her distressed eyes regarding me. Her expression

changed to dread. There was a tense stillness for a second,

perhaps.

I turned my face towards the desk, and took up and dropped a handful

of paper fasteners.

"Margaret," I said, " I'm afraid you'll have to believe it."

Margaret sat very still. When I looked at her again, her face was

very white, and her distressed eyes scrutinised me. Her lips

quivered as she spoke. "You really mean-THAT?" she said.

I nodded.

"I never dreamt."

"I never meant you to dream."

"And that is why-we've been apart?"

I thought. "I suppose it is."

"Why have you told me now?"

"Those rumours. I didn't want any one else to tell you."

"Or else it wouldn't have mattered?"

"No."

She turned her eyes from me to the fire. Then for a moment she

looked about the room she had made for me, and then quite silently,

with a childish quivering of her lips, with a sort of dismayed

distress upon her face, she was weeping. She sat weeping in her

dress of cloth of gold, with her bare slender arms dropped limp over

the arms of her chair, and her eyes averted from me, making no

effort to stay or staunch her tears. "Iamsorry, Margaret," I

said. "I was in love… I did not understand…"

Presently she asked: "What are you going to do?"

"You see, Margaret, now it's come to be your affair-I want to know

what you-what you want."

"You want to leave me?"

"If you want me to, I must."

"Leave Parliament-leave all the things you are doing,-all this

fine movement of yours?"

"No." I spoke sullenly. "I don't want to leave anything. I want to

stay on. I've told you, because I think we-Isabel and I, I mean-

have got to drive through a storm of scandal anyhow. I don't know

how far things may go, how much people may feel, and I can't, I

can't have you unconscious, unarmed, open to any revelation-"

She made no answer.

"When the thing began-I knew it was stupid but I thought it was a

thing that wouldn't change, wouldn't be anything but itself,

wouldn't unfold-consequences… People have got hold of these

vague rumours… Directly it reached any one else but-but us

two-I saw it had to come to you."

I stopped. I had that distressful feeling I have always had with

Margaret, of not being altogether sure she heard, of beingdoubtful

if she understood. I perceived that once again I had struck at her

and shattered a thousand unsubstantial pinnacles. And I couldn't

get at her, to help her, or touch her mind! I stood up, and at my

movement she moved. She produced a dainty little handkerchief, and

made an effort to wipe her face with it, and held it to her eyes.

"Oh, my Husband!" she sobbed.

"What do you mean to do?" she said, with her voice muffled by her

handkerchief.

"We're going to end it," I said.

Something gripped me tormentingly as I said that. I drew a chair

beside her and sat down. "You and I, Margaret, have been partners,"

I began. "We've built up this life of ours together; I couldn't

have done it without you. We've made a position, created a work-"

She shook her head. "You," she said.

"You helping. I don't want to shatter it-if you don't want it

shattered. I can't leave my work. I can't leave you. I want you

to have-all that you have ever had. I've never meant to rob you.

I've made an immense and tragic blunder. You don't know how things

took us, how different they seemed! My character and accident have

conspired-We'll pay-in ourselves, not in our public service."

I halted again. Margaret remained very still.

"I want you to understand that the thing is at an end. It is