There is scarcely any purpose in carrying it further." He looked at her for a moment before replying.

She was wearing black, but scarcely the black of a woman who sorrows.

She was still frigidly beautiful, redolent, in all the details of her toilette, of that almost negative perfection which he had learnt to expect from her.

She suggested to him still that same sense of aloofness from the actualities of life.
"I prefer not to believe that it is ended," he protested.

"Have you so many friends that you have no room for one who has never consciously done you any harm ?" She looked at him with some faint curiosity in her immobile features.
"Harm?
No! On the contrary, I suppose I ought to thank you for your evidence at the inquest." "Some part of it was the truth," he replied.
"I suppose so," she admitted drily.