Addie felt in his pocket for the key:
"It's late," he said, mechanically.
"Getting on for twelve," replied Mathilde, dully.
He saw that her eyes were red with weeping. He said nothing. They went upstairs without speaking. On reaching the nursery, they both crept in for a moment on tip-toe and looked into the little cots. The nurse was sleeping in the next room, with the door open between. They exchanged a smile, because the babies were sleeping so prettily. Then they went to Mathilde's bedroom. Once they had crossed the threshold, it seemed to him as if they were strangers.
"I'm tired," said Mathilde.
"So am I," said Addie.
He kissed her, left her and went to his own bedroom. Through the closed door he could follow her movements, heard her undressing, heard the rustle of her clothes. He sank into a chair and stared in front of him:
"I know," he thought, with his eyes very wide.
"She loves him and he loves her. I . . . I no longer love her. . . . She has never been indispensable to my existence. . . . I made a mistake. I did not know for myself. . . ."
He did not sleep that night. Next morning early he said to Mathilde:
"Tilly, I want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"About ourselves."
She raised her eyebrows impatiently:
"What for?" she asked. "We have had that sort of talk so often. It leads to nothing. It tires me."
"Yes, you're looking tired . . . and ill. You're not happy."
"Oh, never mind my happiness!"
