One morning Iris was idly turning over the papers in her desk. There
were old letters, old photographs, all kinds of trifling treasures that
reminded her of the past--a woman keeps everything; the little
mementoes of her childhood, her first governess, her first school, her
school friendships--everything. As Iris turned over these things her
mind wandered back to the old days. She became again a young
girl--innocent, fancy free; she grew up--she was a woman innocent
still. Then her mind jumped at one leap to the present, and she saw
herself as she was--innocent no longer, degraded and guilty, the vile
accomplice of a vile conspiracy.
Then, as one who has been wearing coloured glasses puts them off and
sees things in their own true colours, she saw how she had been pulled
down by a blind infatuation to the level of the man who had held her in
his fascination; she saw him as he was--reckless, unstable, careless of
name and honour. Then for the first time she realised the depths into
which she was plunged and the life which she was henceforth doomed to
lead. The blind love fell from her--it was dead at last; but it left
her bound to the man by a chain which nothing could break; she was in
her right senses; she saw things as they were; but the knowledge came
too late.
Her husband made no attempt to bridge over the estrangement which had
thus grown up between them: it became wider every day; he lived apart
and alone; he sat in his own room, smoking more cigars, drinking more
brandy-and-water than was good for him; sometimes he paced the gravel
walks in the garden; in the evening, after dinner, he went out and
walked about the empty streets of the quiet city. Once or twice he
ventured into a cafe, sitting in a corner, his hat drawn over his eyes;
but that was dangerous. For the most part he kept in the streets, and
he spoke to no one.
Meantime the autumn had given place to winter, which began in wet and
dreary fashion. Day and night the rain fell, making the gravel walks
too wet and the streets impossible. Then Lord Harry sat in his room and
smoked all day long. And still the melancholy of the one increased, and
the boredom of the other.
He spoke at last. It was after breakfast.
"Iris," he said, "how long is this to continue?"
"This--what?"
"This life--this miserable solitude and silence."
"Till we die," she replied. "What else do you expect? You have sold our
freedom, and we must pay the price."