He had lost a great deal, for Rose despised him; that had been plain
in the face which once had been so soft for him.

'I asked you,' Christabel said, 'if you had lost something.'

'Yes--no, nothing.'

She let out a small piercing shriek. 'You're lying, lying! But why
should I care? You've done that for years. And Rose has been so kind,
hasn't she, coming to see me every week? Take your letter, Francis.
Yes, I've read it! I don't care. I'm helpless. Take it!' From its
hiding-place under the coverlet she drew the letter and threw it at
him. It fluttered feebly to the ground. She had made a tremendous
effort, trying to fling it in his face, and it had fallen as mildly as
a snowflake. She began to sob. This was the climax of her suffering,
that it should fall like that.

He picked it up and read it. It was no good trying to explain, for one
explanation would only necessitate another. He was deeply in the mire,
they were both, they were all in it, and he did not know how to get
anybody out, but he had to stop that sobbing somehow. His pity for
Christabel swelled into his biggest feeling. He crumpled the letter
angrily and, at the sound, she held her breathing for a moment. Of
course, she should have crumpled the letter and then she might have
hit him with it.

'I wish to God I'd never seen her,' she heard him say with despairing
anger. And then, more gently, 'Don't cry, Christabel. I can't bear to
hear you. The letter's nothing. I shall never meet her again. I must
take more care of you.' He took her hand and stroked it. He would