Quite aware that I am doing wrong, I let Martha look back into her past; and I even question her myself so as to bring before her eyes the long dismal perspective of her wounded love. I listen in the manner she likes best, calmly and without any show of compassion. Nor have I any for her, any more than for a fish that must needs live in cold water, or for a bat that cannot bear the sunlight. Martha likes to suffer, and—perhaps for this very reason—she is compelled to suffer. Indeed, she is something of a Sybarite in her almost abnormal sensitiveness to pain. She is fond of telling me all the petty foolish troubles of an injured wife; and this procures her an odd sense of what may be called a sort of enjoyment.
"But, all the same, there was a time once when he loved you, did he not?"
"Oh, Witold declares that up to now he has loved none but me!"
"Well, well; but then at what time did this—the present phase begin? For some time at least, he must have been faithful to you."
"Oh, yes, for a few months. Quite at the beginning. Though I myself was never happy. … First of all, during the six
