Their eyes met.

Hers, with all their subtle inheritance of various expression, their realised character, as it were, searched his, tried to understand them--those peasant eyes, so piercing to her strained sense in their animal urgency and shame.

_Why_ had he done this awful thing ?--deceived her--wrecked his wife ?--that was what her look asked.

It seemed to her too _childish_--too _stupid_ to be believed.
"I haven't made nobbut a poor return to _you_, miss," he said in a shambling way, as though the words were dragged out of him.

Then he threw up his head again.