She had, then, taken it for granted that I had been suffering all that
she had been suffering, or, at least, that I had permitted all that
she had permitted. So that, a month ago, about a week after the
funeral of poor Edward, she could say to me in the most natural
way in the world--I had been talking about the duration of my stay
at Branshaw--she said with her clear, reflective intonation:

"Oh, stop here for ever and ever if you can." And then she added,
"You couldn't be more of a brother to me, or more of a counsellor,
or more of a support. You are all the consolation I have in the
world. And isn't it odd to think that if your wife hadn't been my
husband's mistress, you would probably never have been here at
all?"

That was how I got the news--full in the face, like that. I didn't say
anything and I don't suppose I felt anything, unless maybe it was
with that mysterious and unconscious self that underlies most
people. Perhaps one day when I am unconscious or walking in my
sleep I may go and spit upon poor Edward's grave. It seems about
the most unlikely thing I could do; but there it is. No, I remember
no emotion of any sort, but just the clear feeling that one has from
time to time when one hears that some Mrs So-and-So is au mieux
with a certain gentleman. It made things plainer, suddenly, to my
curiosity. It was as if I thought, at that moment, of a windy
November evening, that, when I came to think it over afterwards,
a dozen unexplained things would fit themselves into place. But I
wasn't thinking things over then. I remember that distinctly. I was
just sitting back, rather stiffly, in a deep arm-chair. That is what I
remember. It was twilight.