He was turning away, but she stopped him. "Wait," she said, and he
returned, his cold, attentive eye upon her. There was no contempt, no
indignation in his bearing. If those feelings had shaken him, it must
have been some time ago. If they had been met and vanquished in secret,
that also must have been some time ago. He took up an _Imitation of
Christ_, bound in the peculiar shade of lilac which at that moment
prevailed, and turned it in his hand.

"You are overwrought," he said, after a moment's pause, "and I
particularly dislike a scene."

She did not heed him.

"I listened at the door," she said, in a harsh, unnatural voice.

"I am perfectly aware of it."

A sort of horror seemed to have enveloped the familiar room. The very
furniture looked like well-known words arranged suddenly in some new and
dreadful meaning.

"You never loved me," she said.

He did not answer, but he looked gravely at her for a moment, and she
was ashamed.

"Why don't you divorce me if you think me so wicked?"

"For the sake of the children," he said, with a slight change of voice.