He had lied to her about her letters—­had lied to her when he found it to his interest to regain her favor.  Yes, there was thepoint to hold fast.  He had sought her out when he learned that she was rich.  Perhaps he had come back from America on purpose to marry her; no doubt he had come back on purpose.  It was incredible that she had not seen this at the time.  She turned sick at the thought of her fatuity and of the grossness of his arts.  Well, the event proved that they were all heneeded.  But why had he gone out at such an hour?  She was irritated to find herself still preoccupied by his comings and goings.

Turning from the window, she sat down again.  She wondered what she meant to do next.  No, she would not show him the letters; she would simply leave them on his table and go away.  She would leave the house with her boy and Andora.  It was a relief to feela definite plan forming itself in her mind—­something that her uprooted thoughts could fasten on.  She would go away, of course; and meanwhile, in order not to see him, she would feign a headache, and remain in her room till after luncheon.  Then she and Andora would pack a few things, and fly with the child while he was dawdling about up-stairs in the studio.  When one’s house fell, one fled from the ruins:  nothing could be simpler, more inevitable.

Her thoughts were checked by the impossibility of picturing what would happen next.  Try as she would, she could not see herself and the child away from Deering.  But that, of course, was because of her nervous weakness.  She had youth, money, energy:  all the trumps were on her side.  It was much more difficult to imagine what would become of Deering.  He was so dependent on her, and they had been so happy together!  The fact struck her as illogical, and even immoral, and yet she knew he had been happy with her.  It never happened like that in novels:  happiness “built on a lie” always crumbled, and buried the presumptuous architect beneath the ruins.  According to the laws of every novel she had ever read, Deering, having deceived her once, would inevitably have gone on deceiving her.  Yet she knew he had not gone on deceiving her.

She tried again to picture her new life.  Her friends, of course, would rally about her.  But the prospect left her cold; she did not want them to rally.  She wanted only one thing—­the life she had been living before she had given her baby the embroideredbag to play with.  Oh, why had she given him the bag?  She had been so happy, they had all been so happy!  Every nerve in her clamored for her lost happiness, angrily, unreasonably, as the boy had clamored for his bag!  It was horrible to know too much; there was always blood in the foundations.  Parents “kept things” from children—­protected them from all the dark secrets of pain and evil.  And was any life livable unless it were thus protected?  Could any one look in the Medusa’s face and live?

But why should she leave the house, since it was hers?  Here, with her boy and Andora, she could still make for herself the semblance of a life.  It was Deering who would have to go; he would understand that as soon as he saw the letters.