Chapter 6

           APROFOUNDstillnessreignedintheCasaGould.Themasterofthehouse,walkingalongthecorredor,openedthedoorofhisroom,andsawhiswifesittinginabigarmchair—hisownsmokingarmchair—thoughtful,contemplatingherlittleshoes.Andshedidnotraisehereyeswhenhewalkedin.

           “Tired?”askedCharlesGould.

           “Alittle,”saidMrs.Gould.Stillwithoutlookingup,sheaddedwithfeeling,“Thereisanawfulsenseofunrealityaboutallthis.”

           CharlesGould,beforethelongtablestrewnwithpapers,onwhichlayahuntingcropandapairofspurs,stoodlookingathiswife:“Theheatanddustmusthavebeenawfulthisafternoonbythewaterside,”hemurmured,sympathetically.“Theglareonthewatermusthavebeensimplyterrible.”

           “Onecouldcloseone’seyestotheglare,”saidMrs.Gould.“But,mydearCharley,itisimpossibleformetoclosemyeyestoourposition;tothisawful...”

           Sheraisedhereyesandlookedatherhusband’sface,fromwhichallsignofsympathyoranyotherfeelinghaddisappeared.“Whydon’tyoutellmesomething?”shealmostwailed.

           “Ithoughtyouhadunderstoodmeperfectlyfromthefirst,”CharlesGouldsaid,slowly.“Ithoughtwehadsaidalltherewastosayalongtimeago.Thereisnothingtosaynow.Therewerethingstobedone.Wehavedonethem;wehavegoneondoingthem.Thereisnogoingbacknow.