On reaching the street which led to Philip’s hotel, we spoke¹ to each other for the first time.

“What are we to do?” I said.

“Leave this place,” he answered.

“Together?” I asked.

“Yes.”

To leave us (for a while), after what had happened, might be the wisest thing which a man, in Philip’s critical position, could do. But if I went with him—unprovided as I was with any friend of my own sex, whose character and presence might sanction the step I had taken—I should be lost beyond redemption. Is any man that ever lived worth that sacrifice? I thought of my father’s house closed to me, and of our friends ashamed of me. I have owned, in some earlier part of my Journal, that I am not very patient under domestic cares. But the possibility of Eunice being appointed housekeeper³, with my power, in my place, was more than I could calmly contemplate⁴. “No,” I said to Philip. “Your absence, at such a time as this, may help us both; but, come what may of it, I must remain at home.”

He yielded, without an attempt to make me alter my mind. There was a sullen⁵ submission⁶ in his manner which it was not pleasant to see. Was he despairing already of himself and of me? Had Eunice aroused the watchful⁷ demons⁸ of shame and remorse⁹?

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, gloomily. “Good-by.”

My anxiety put the all-important question to him without hesitation¹⁰.

“Is it good-by forever, Philip?”

His reply instantly relieved me: “God forbid!”

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