suspicion. Blake said no further word on the subject, and Sennett
was as welcome as before. But Edith, looking up suddenly, would
sometimes find her husband's eyes fixed on her with a troubled look
as of some dumb creature trying to understand; and often he would
slip out of the house of an evening by himself, returning home
hours afterwards, tired and mud-stained.

He made attempts to show his affection. This was the most fatal
thing he could have done. Ill-temper, ill-treatment even, she
might have borne. His clumsy caresses, his foolish, halting words
of tenderness became a horror to her. She wondered whether to
laugh or to strike at his upturned face. His tactless devotion
filled her life as with some sickly perfume, stifling her. If only
she could be by herself for a little while to think! But he was
with her night and day. There were times when, as he would cross
the room towards her, he grew monstrous until he towered above her,
a formless thing such as children dream of. And she would sit with
her lips tight pressed, clutching the chair lest she should start
up screaming.

Her only thought was to escape from him. One day she hastily
packed a few necessaries in a small hand-bag and crept unperceived
from the house. She drove to Charing Cross, but the Continental
Express did not leave for an hour, and she had time to think.

Of what use was it? Her slender stock of money would soon be gone;
how could she live? He would find her and follow her. It was all
so hopeless!

Suddenly a fierce desire of life seized hold of her, the angry