you?" There had been a hurried packing and a hurried lunch, and in the taxi he had given her a few broken glimpses of a part of himself that was suffering. Sorrell was il. And it seemed to Molly that her husband had some quarrel with himself and that she was involved in it. Curious how baffling a mood could be, and the disturbed vibrations of a loved comrade. She was made to reflect upon life as she felt and saw it, and life as it welled up out of her subconsciousness. It was easier to write than to read. She knew all about the people in her books; in fact she felt that they were more intimately hers than the man who sat in the corner opposite her. She was aware of a passionate urge towards him. He was one of her problems, perhaps her most dear problem; she had to understand; this understanding was a precious and poignant compulsion laid upon her; eluded, unsolved, it would spell failure, the worst sort of failure.
She kept very still. There was a part of her that seemed to be groping towards the hidden silences of her mate. And suddenly she felt that she had got it, touched the knot of soul pain in him, and that she could unravel it.
His eyes met hers with a sudden questioning uneasiness. He was conscious of that other intelligence.
"Sorry to drag you off like this."
"Do you think I mind?—It was I who dragged you away."
His eyes seemed to give a little start of surprise.
"What's that,—Molly? How?"
"He has been hiding something from us both."
Kit got up and came and sat beside her.
"Roland says—that he has cancer."
Her right hand found one of his.
"O,—my dear!"
His face was all puckered.
"What a blind brute! I thought he looked rather seedy, I asked him. Of course—now—I see it all. He put me off. But—I—I ought to have known. A man whose whole business! And I didn't see it in him—the one man who has given me—everything. I was too darned happy, too horribly happy."
He felt the pressure of her fingers.
"My sin—too—dear heart."
