Nancy felt no consciousness of the gulf that yawned between herself as she spoke now and the old self which had claimed ‘superiority.’  Her mind was so completely unsettled that she never tried to connect its present state with its earlier phases.  For the most part, her sensations and her reflections were concerned with the crude elements of life; the exceptional moments she spent in a world of vague joys and fears, wherein thought, properly speaking, had no share.  Before she could outlive the shock of passion which seemed at once to destroy and to re-create her, she was confronted with the second supreme crisis of woman’s existence,—­its natural effects complicated with the trials of her peculiar position.  Tarrant’s reception of her disclosure came as a new disturbance—­she felt bewildered and helpless.

He, preoccupied with the anxiety he affected to dismiss, had no inclination to debate ethical problems.  For a while he talked jestingly, and at length fell into a mood of silence.  Nancy did not stay much longer; they parted without mention of the subject uppermost in their thoughts.

They had no stated times of meeting.  Tarrant sent an invitation whenever it pleased him.  When the next arrived, in about a week, Nancy made reply that she did not feel well enough to leave home.  It was the briefest letter Tarrant had yet received from her, and the least affectionate.  He kept silence for a few days, and wrote again.  This time Nancy responded as usual, and came.

To the involuntary question in his eyes, hers answered unmistakably.  For the first few minutes they said very little to each other.  Tarrant was struggling with repulsions and solicitudes of which he felt more than half ashamed; Nancy, reticent for many reasons, not the least of them a resentful pride, which for the moment overcame her fondness, endeavoured to speak of trivial things.  They kept apart, and at length the embarrassment of the situation held them both mute.

With a nervous movement, the young man pushed forward the chair on which Nancy usually sat.

‘I see that you don’t look well.’

Nancy turned to the window.  She had unbuttoned her jacket, and taken off her gloves, but went no further in the process of preparing herself for the ordinary stay of some hours.

‘Did something in my letter displease you?’ inquired her husband.

’You mean—­because I didn’t come?  No; I really didn’t feel well enough.’

Tarrant hesitated, but the softer feeling prevailed with him.  He helped to remove her jacket, seated her by the fire, and led her to talk.

‘So there’s no doubt of it?’

Her silence made answer.

‘Then of course there’s just as little doubt as to what we must do.’

His voice had not a convincing sincerity; he waited for the reply.

‘You mean that we can’t keep the secret?’

‘How is it possible?’

’But you are vexed about it.  You don’t speak to me as you used to.  I don’t think you ever will again.’