explain and that, when 'What do you suppose is the matter?' quickly passed between them, one appeared to have said it as much as the other. Withermore looked about at the small, bright room in which, night after night, she had been living her life as he had been living his own upstairs. It was pretty, cosy, rosy; but she had by turns felt in it what he had felt and heard in it what he had heard. Her effect there—fantastic black, plumed and extravagant, upon deep pink—was that of some 'decadent' coloured print, some poster of the newest school. 'You understood he had left me?' he asked.
She markedly wished to make it clear. 'This evening—yes. I've made things out.'
'You knew—before—that he was with me?'
She hesitated again. 'I felt he wasn't with me. But on the stairs———'
'Yes?'
'Well—he passed, more than once. He was in the house. And at your door———'
'Well?' he went on as she once more faltered.
'If I stopped I could sometimes tell. And from your face,' she added, 'to-night, at any rate, I knew your state.'
'And that was why you came out?'
'I thought you'd come to me.'
He put out to her, on this, his hand, and they thus, for a minute, in silence, held each other clasped. There was no peculiar presence for either, now—nothing more peculiar than that of each for the other. But the place had suddenly become as if consecrated, and Withermore turned over it again his anxiety. 'What is then the matter?'
'I only want to do the real right thing,' she replied after a moment.
'And are we not doing it?'
'I wonder. Are you not?'
He wondered too. 'To the best of my belief. But we must think.'
