My wife—killed me. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. You refuse me your confidence.
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