hearth at that moment. He, too, feeling physically weak, remained silent, feeling his soul absent from the scene.
Again she suddenly burst into tears, weeping bitterly.
"And the children," she sobbed, rocking herself with grief and chagrin. "What have I been able to say to the children—what have I been able to tell them?"
"What have you told them?" he asked coldly.
"I told them you'd gone away to work," she sobbed, laying her head on her arms on the table. "What else could I tell them? I couldn't tell them the vile truth about their father. I couldn't tell them how evil you are." She sobbed and moaned.
He wondered what exactly the vile truth would have been, had she started to tell it. And he began to feel, coldly and cynically, that among all her distress there was a luxuriating in the violent emotions of the scene in hand, and the situation altogether.
Then again she became quiet, and picked up her sewing. She stitched quietly, wistfully, for some time. Then she looked up at him—a long look of reproach, and sombre accusation, and wifely tenderness. He turned his face aside.
"You know you've been wrong to me, don't you?" she said, half wistfully, half menacing.
He felt her wistfulness and her menace tearing him in his bowels and loins.
"You do know, don't you?" she insisted, still with the wistful appeal, and the veiled threat.
"You do, or you would answer," she said. "You've still got enough that's right in you, for you to know."
She waited. He sat still, as if drawn by hot wires.
Then she slipped across to him, put her arms round him, sank on her knees at his side, and sank her face against his thigh.
"Say you know how wrong you are. Say you know how cruel you've been to me," she pleaded. But under her female pleading and appeal he felt the iron of her threat.
"You do know it," she murmured, looking up into his face as she crouched by his knee. "You do know it. I can see in
