A moment of perfect stillness ensued.

“This is an appeal I am making to your conscience,” he said, suddenly, in an explanatory tone, “not to add to the wretchedness of all this:  to try loyally and help me to live it down somehow.  Without any reservations—­you know.  Loyally!  You can’t deny I’ve been cruelly wronged and—­after all—­my affection deserves . . .”  He paused with evident anxiety to hear her speak.

“I make no reservations,” she said, mournfully.  “How could I?  I found myself out and came back to . . .” her eyes flashed scornfully for an instant “. . . to what—­to what you propose.  You see . . .  I . . .  I can be trusted . . . now.”

He listened to every word with profound attention, and when she ceased seemed to wait for more.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” he asked.

She was startled by his tone, and said faintly—­

“I spoke the truth.  What more can I say?”

“Confound it!  You might say something human,” he burst out.  “It isn’t being truthful; it’s being brazen—­if you want to know.  Not a word to show you feel your position, and—­and mine.  Not a single word of acknowledgment, or regret—­or remorse . . . or . . . something.”

“Words!” she whispered in a tone that irritated him.  He stamped his foot.

“This is awful!” he exclaimed.  “Words?  Yes, words.  Words mean something—­yes—­they do—­for all this infernal affectation.  They mean something to me—­to everybody—­to you.  What the devil did you use to express those sentiments—­sentiments—­pah!—­which made you forget me, duty, shame!” . . .  He foamed at the mouth while she stared at him, appalled by this sudden fury.  “Did you two talk only with your eyes?” he spluttered savagely.  She rose.

“I can’t bear this,” she said, trembling from head to foot.  “I am going.”

They stood facing one another for a moment.

“Not you,” he said, with conscious roughness, and began to walk up and down the room.  She remained very still with an air of listening anxiously to her own heart-beats, then sank down on the chair slowly, and sighed, as if giving up a task beyond her strength.

“You misunderstand everything I say,” he began quietly, “but I prefer to think that—­just now—­you are not accountable for your actions.”  He stopped again before her.  “Your mind is unhinged,” he said, with unction.  “To go now would be adding crime—­yes, crime—­to folly.  I’ll have no scandal in my life, no matter what’s the cost.  And why?  You are sure to misunderstand me—­but I’ll tell you.  As a matter of duty.  Yes.  But you’re sure to misunderstand me—­recklessly.  Women always do—­they are too—­too narrow-minded.”

He waited for a while, but she made no sound, didn’t even look at him; he felt uneasy, painfully uneasy, like a man who suspects he is unreasonably mistrusted.  To combat that exasperating sensation he recommenced talking very fast.  The sound of his words excited his thoughts, and in the play of darting thoughts he had glimpses now and then of the inexpugnable rock of his convictions, towering in solitary grandeur above the unprofitable waste of errors and passions.