Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five minutes, very
distinctly, that there might be no misunderstanding her meaning.
When Samson broke the pillars of Gaza, he did a little thing, and
one not to be compared to the deliberate pulling down of a
woman's homestead about her own ears. There was no wise female
friend to advise Mrs. Boulte, the singularly cautious wife, to hold
her hand. She struck at Boulte's heart, because her own was sick
with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out with the long strain of
watching alone through the Rains. There was no plan or purpose in
her speaking. The sentences made themselves; and Boulte listened,
leaning against the door-post with his hands in his pockets. When
all was over, and Mrs. Boulte began to breathe through her nose
before breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared straight in
front of him at the Dosehri hills.

'Is that all?' he said. 'Thanks, I only wanted to know, you know.'

'What are you going to do?' said the woman, between her sobs.

'Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell, or send you Home,
or apply for leave to get a divorce? It's two days' dƒk into
Narkarra.' He laughed again and went on: 'I'll tell you what you can
do. You can ask Kurrell to dinner tomorrow no, on Thursday, that
will allow you time to pack and you can bolt with him. I give you
my word I won't follow.'

He took up his helmet and went out of the room, and Mrs. Boulte
sat till the moonlight streaked the floor, thinking and thinking and
thinking. She had done her best upon the spur of the moment to