“I will leave the room, if you please, Miss Lee; this is an interview I did not desire to witness.”

“No,” she exclaimed, “do not go.  I have nothing to say that you should not hear; and I hope Mr. Greenleaf will spare me the pain of going over a history which is better forgotten.”

“It can never be forgotten,” interposed Greenleaf; “and, in spite of your protest, I must say what I can—­and that is little enough—­to exculpate myself, and then throw myself upon your charity for forgiveness.”

Alice remained silent; but it was a silence that gave no encouragement to Greenleaf.  He advanced still nearer, looking at her with a tender earnestness, as though his very soul were in the glance.  She covered her face with her hands.

“Alice,” he said, “you know what that name once meant to me.  I cannot speak it now without a feeling beyond utterance.”

Easelmann, meanwhile, quietly sidled towards the door, and, saying that he was going back to see Mrs. Sandford, abruptly left the room.

Greenleaf went on,—­“I know my conduct was utterly inexcusable; but I declare, by my hope of heaven, I never loved any woman but you.  I was fascinated, ensnared, captivated by the senses only; now that illusion is past, and I turn to you.”

“My illusion is past also; you turn too late.  Can you make me forget those months of neglect?”

The tone was tender, but mournful.  How he wished that her answer had been fuller of rebuke!  He could hope to overcome her anger far more easily than this settled sorrow.

“I know I can never atone for the wrong; there are injuries that are irreparable, wounds that leave ineffaceable scars.  I can never undo what I have done; would to Heaven I could!  You may never forget this period of suffering; but that is past now; it is not to be lived over again.  Go back rather to the brighter days before it; think of them, and then look down the future;—­may I dare say it?—­the future, perhaps, will make us both forget my insane wanderings and your undeserved pains.”

“But love must have faith to lean upon.  While I loved you, I rested on absolute trust.  I would have believed you against all the world.  I would have been glad to share your lot, even in poverty and obscurity.  I did not love you for your art nor your fame.  You wavered; you forgot me.  I don’t know what it was that tempted you, but it was enough; it drew you away from me; and as long as you preferred another, or could be satisfied with any other woman’s love, you lost all claim to mine.”

Greenleaf could not but feel the force of this direct, womanly logic:  in its clear light how pitiful were the excuses he had framed for himself!  He felt sure that many, even of the best of men, might have erred in the same way; but this was an argument which would have much more weight with his own sex than with women.  Men know their own frailties, and are therefore charitable; women consider inconstancy to be the one unpardonable sin, and are inexorable.