Then he turned away and left the room.
Marcella sprang up.
"Will you order the carriage ?" she said in a strangled voice.

"I will go upstairs." "Marcella!" cried Aldous; "can you not be just to me, if it is impossible for you to be generous ?" "Just!" she repeated, with a tone and gesture of repulsion, pushing him back from her.

"_You_ can talk of justice!" He tried to speak, stammered, and failed.

That strange paralysis of the will-forces which dogs the man of reflection at the moment when he must either take his world by storm or lose it was upon him now.

He had never loved her more passionately--but as he stood there looking at her, something broke within him, the first prescience of the inevitable dawned.
"_You_," she said again, walking stormily to and fro, and catching at her breath--"_You_, in this house, with this life--to talk of justice--the justice that comes of slaying a man like Hurd! And I must go back to that cottage, to that woman, and tell her there is _no_ hope--none! Because _you_ must follow your conscience--you who have everything! Oh! I would not have your conscience--I wish you a heart--rather! Don't come to me, please! Oh! I must think how it can be.
Things cannot go on so.