"Oh, because Junie's umbrella is in tatters, and I had to leave her mine, as I was going away for the whole day." She spoke the words like a person in a trance.
"For the whole day? At this hour? Where?"
They were on the doorstep, and she fumbled automatically for her key, let herself in, and led the way to the sitting-room. It had not been tidied up since the night before. The children's school books lay scattered on the table and sofa, and the empty fireplace was grey with ashes. She turned to Nick in the pallid light.
"I was going to see you," she stammered, "I was going to follow you to Fontainebleau, if necessary, to tell you . . . to prevent you. . . ."
He repeated in the same aggressive tone: "Tell me what? Prevent what?"
"Tell you that there must be some other way . . . some decent way . . . of our separating . . . without that horror . . . that horror of your going off with a woman. . . ."
He stared, and then burst into a laugh. The blood rushed to her face. She had caught a familiar ring in his laugh, and it wounded her. What business had he, at such a time, to laugh in the old way?
"I'm sorry; but there is no other way, I'm afraid. No other way but one," he corrected himself.
She raised her head sharply. Well?"
"That you should be the woman.—Oh, my
