WHITEWASH
perfect trust of Philippa crumbled and fell from him.
He was roused by the sound of Mrs. Durham's voice, and looking up, noticed her slim, flat shoulders and the graceful sweep of her skirts. She had entered and was talking to Courncey with her back toward him. He was glad of that; he could not bear that she should see his face.
Rising quickly, he walked to the window and stood looking down on the crowded streets below, over which, antlike, men and women swarmed and crawled. He almost wished himself one of those silent, undisturbed sleepers down in Trinity churchyard, where the headstones protruded, black with damp, from the dark brown mold-spotted over with rotten, porous snow. He pulled himself together, and turned again to the room. Mrs. Durham's face was toward him now, and he heard her voice, modulated to not ungentle tones. He did not catch her words. He was conscious only of one decision. For sake of what had been, he would shield Philippa! for the sake of his own illusion—the illusion, not the reality!
