He looked at the clock, and made an imperceptible movement toward the door.

Etta glanced up sharply.  She did not seem to be breathing.

“Is that all?” she asked, in a dull voice.

There was a long silence, tense and throbbing, the great silence of the steppe.

“I think so,” answered Paul at length.  “I have tried to be just.”

“Then justice is very cruel.”

“Not so cruel as the woman who for a few pounds sells the happiness of thousands of human beings.  Steinmetz advised me to speak to you.  He suggested the possibility of circumstances of which we are ignorant.  He said that you might be able to explain.”

Silence.

“Can you explain?”

Silence.  Etta sat looking into the fire.  The little clock hurried on.  At length Etta drew a deep breath.

“You are the sort of man,” she said, “who does not understand temptation.  You are strong.  The devil leaves the strong in peace.  You have found virtue easy because you have never wanted money.  Your position has always been assured.  Your name alone is a password through the world.  Your sort are always hard on women who—­who—­What have I done, after all?”

Some instinct bade her rise to her feet and stand before him—­tall, beautiful, passionate, a woman in a thousand, a fit mate for such as he.  Her beautiful hair in burnished glory round her face gleamed in the firelight.  Her white fingers clenched, her arms thrown back, her breast panting beneath the lace, her proud face looking defiance into his—­no one but a prince could have braved this princess.

“What have I done?” she cried a second time.  “I have only fought for myself, and if I have won, so much the greater credit.  I am your wife.  I have done nothing the law can touch.  Thousands of women moving in our circle are not half so good as I am.  I swear before God I am——­”

“Hush!” he said, with upraised hand.  “I never doubted that.”

“I will do any thing you wish,” she went on, and in her humility she was very dangerous.  “I deceived you, I know.  But I sold the Charity League before I knew that you—­that you thought of me.  When I married you I didn’t love you.  I admit that.  But Paul—­oh, Paul, if you were not so good you would understand.”

Perhaps he did understand; for there was that in her eyes that made her meaning clear.

He was silent; standing before her in his great strength, his marvellous and cruel self-restraint.

“You will not forgive me?”

For a moment she leaned forward, peering into his face.  He seemed to be reflecting.

“Yes,” he said at length, “I forgive you.  But if I cared for you, forgiveness would be impossible.”

He went slowly toward the door.  Etta looked round the room with drawn eyes; their room—­the room he had fitted up for his bride with the lavishness of a great wealth and a great love.