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“No,” she said and drew her hand away. “No, Cordt. That was only my nonsense.”

He said nothing. His hand fell down slackly and he turned paler than she could remember ever having seen him. She was afraid that he was ill and stooped over him and called to him.

He did not see her, did not hear her.

She could not take her eyes from him. She thought he could not look more distressed if their boy were dead. She felt it as an appalling shame, that she herself was glad of it; and she dreaded lest he should look at her.

Then he did and read her thoughts.

And she grew worse and worse the more she saw him grieve. She did not understand it, felt troubled by it.

And, as there was no anger in his eyes, it grew worse for her still. She cast about for a word that could make him move and say something, no matter what.

But he sat still and silent and slowly turned his face away from her. And she could find nothing to say.

She rose and went to the window and stood there for a while. Then she came back and sat down in a chair: