He tapped at her bedroom door at the last minute. She stood with her umbrella in her hand.

He closed the door. He did not know what to say.

“Have you done with me?” he asked her at length, lifting his head.

“It isn't me,” she said. “You have done with me — we have done with each other.”

He looked at her, at the closed face, which he thought so cruel. And he knew he could never touch her again. His will was broken, he was seared, but he clung to the life of his body.

“Well, what have I done?” he asked, in a rather querulous voice.

“I don't know,” she said, in the same dull, feelingless voice.