"Tired?" asked Charles Gould.
"A little," said Mrs. Gould. Still without looking up, she added with
feeling, "There is an awful sense of unreality about all this."
Charles Gould, before the long table strewn with papers, on which lay a
hunting crop and a pair of spurs, stood looking at his wife: "The heat
and dust must have been awful this afternoon by the waterside," he
murmured, sympathetically. "The glare on the water must have been simply
terrible."
"One could close one's eyes to the glare," said Mrs. Gould. "But, my
dear Charley, it is impossible for me to close my eyes to our position;
to this awful . . ."
She raised her eyes and looked at her husband's face, from which all
sign of sympathy or any other feeling had disappeared. "Why don't you
tell me something?" she almost wailed.
"I thought you had understood me perfectly from the first," Charles
Gould said, slowly. "I thought we had said all there was to say a long
time ago. There is nothing to say now. There were things to be done. We
have done them; we have gone on doing them. There is no going back now.
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