“It is finished. It had been a failure.”

He was silent.

The words still burned his bowels.

“Is it my fault?” he said, looking up at length, challenging the last stroke.

“You couldn't — — ” she began. But she broke down.

He turned away, afraid to hear more. She began to gather her bag, her handkerchief, her umbrella. She must be gone now. He was waiting for her to be gone.

At length the carriage came and she drove away with the rest. When she was out of sight, a great relief came over him, a pleasant banality. In an instant, everything was obliterated. He was childishly amiable and companionable all the