they would avoid us like the plague, or knock us on the head like mad
dogs."

Such a philosophy of life ended in the poor woman being shut up in a
madhouse. She ought to have kept it to herself instead of posting it up
on the walls of her house. It was quite sufficient as a proof of her
insanity.

I cannot think what induced me to visit her in the asylum. Not pure
pity. I was prompted rather by that kind of painful curiosity which
makes a patient ask to see a limb which has just been amputated. I
wanted to look with my own eyes into that shadowy future which Agatha
had reached before me.

What did I discover? She had never cared for her husband; on the
contrary she had betrayed him with an effrontery that would hardly have
been tolerated outside the smart world; yet now she suffered the
torments of hell from jealousy of her husband. Not of her lovers; their
day was over; but of him, because he was the one man she saw. Also
because she bore his name and was therefore bound to him.

On every other subject she was perfectly sane. When we were left alone
together she said: "The worst of it is that I know my 'madness' will
only be temporary. It is a malady incident to my age. One day it will
pass away. One day I shall have got through the inevitable phase. But
how does that help me now?"

No, it was no more help to her than the dreadful paint with which she
plastered her haggard features.