Upstairs Julia was waiting for him. Her pale face turned to him as
he came in.
He saw a hunger in it that was not of the soul.
He had never been greatly interested in Julia's soul, and till now
her face had told him nothing of it. It had clipped it tight, like
the covers of a narrow book. He had never cared to open it. Freda's
soul was like an illuminated missal, treasured under transparence;
its divine secret flamed, unafraid, in scarlet and gold.
He did not take his seat beside her, but stood off from her, distant
and uneasy. She rose and laid her hand upon his arm, and he drew
back from her touch.
"Wilton," she said, "you are not going to let this trouble you?"
"What's the good of talking? It won't undo what we did."
"What _we_ did?"
"I, then."
"What else could you do?"
He did not answer, and she murmured, "Or I? I was right. She _was_
in love with you."
He turned on her.
"I wish," he said, "you had never told me."