” “I am going to ask more than a favour,” she said slowly. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. “Eight, Cavendish Square. You may go back, Marthe. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. . “He fell over at my feet,” she continued.
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