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.
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