CHAPTER IXTime was like a refuge built of sand. Moment by moment slipped past Jean carrying her nearer towards the gulf of human intercourse. When the reprieve of this half hour was over, she must ask to see Beatrice. She must admit that a catastrophe, which did not arise out of her work, had put an end to it.
She could make no excuses. She could only say: 'I am very sorry. It is impossible for me to work any more with your husband. I must go.' Beatrice would understand, and she would ask no questions; her eyebrows would go up, her eyes would gleam recognition of what the catastrophe was, mixed with a slight contempt that Jean had failed to avoid it.
Didn't all wives, however indifferent to their husbands, believe that other women were to blame for their husband's infidelity? A knock at
