"And now?"
"Now I know better . . . for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, now I know, Tilly . . . that it is better for you . . . that I should leave you . . ."
"For good?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps for a long time . . . only . . ."
"And the children? Won't you be longing for them?"
It was more than he could bear; and he said nothing, only nodded yes. Then he said:
"But they will be all right . . . with you, Tilly."
It was more than she could bear either. She fell into a chair, sobbing.
"Don't be unhappy, Tilly," he said. "We must make a change. If we remain as we are, we shall end by hating each other. . . . Don't be unhappy about parting . . . when you reflect . . . that it is really out of the question for us to remain together."
"You are right," she said, coldly. "So . . ."
"You will stay here. You will live here. That is, if you like."
"And you?"
"I? I shall go home."
She felt her jealousy of all of them, out there:
"Yes," he said, gently.
"If you don't love me," she burst out, "they will not need to console you long."
"I shall feel regret . . . because I have spoilt your life . . . and because I sha'n't see the children any more."
"Spoilt my life?" she said, proudly. "You have not done that."
He did not answer.
