moved by pity that transcended human limitations, that had grown monstrous. It was what one feels at the sight of a butterfly, still fluttering, but mangled beyond remedy; the overmastering impulse is to destroy it quickly, to end its anguish—and one's own. But this creature was human, and beyond such mercy.
They returned to the house, and on the landing he wished her good night. But she did not go.
"You're so—so quiet . . ." she said, faintly. "I'm afraid—I hope you haven't anything very bad to worry you?"
He was so mortally weary of this that he could no longer respond.
"No, thanks, I haven't," he answered, stiff and unsmiling. "Good-night!"
He shut himself into his room with a sigh of relief. But through the thin wall he heard her stirring, and it exasperated him; he imagined that she moved feebly, like a stricken animal; he imagined her stumbling about because her eyes were blind with tears. He couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, with that going on; he walked up and down, angry, yet interested.
"Where's the line between cruelty and pity?" he thought. "I'm not sure that they aren't sometimes manifestations of the same emotion—the wish to get rid of what you don't like—"
He was interrupted by a knock at the door which he knew to be hers.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "Can't you let me alone?" And he flung open the door with a crash. The light from his room was full upon her, and he was appalled at her face. But she was without shame, utterly abandoned to her anguish, tears running down her cheeks in streams.
"I can't help it . . ." she stammered. "I—oh, I heard you walking up and down. . . . I was afraid—you—you were— like me. . . . All alone—and—and suffering so. . . ."
He said nothing at all; there was a shocking relief in being silent, in making no attempt at consolation. He looked at her with calm indifference.
"This must end," he reflected. "If I don't speak, she'll have to go away."
But apparently she didn't notice his silence; she came nearer and caught his passive hand in both of hers.
