They ceased altogether to speak; their very meals were taken in
silence. The husband saw continual reproach in his wife's eyes; her sad
and heavy look spoke more plainly than any words, "It is to this that
you have brought me."
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.
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