“Why do you look at me so?” he says, hoarsely.  “What have I done?  For God’s sake, do not think that I blame you!  I never have been so sorry for any one in my life as I have been for you—­as I was for you from the first moment I saw you!  I can see you now, as I first caught sight of you—­weariness and depression in every line of your face—­”

I can bear no more.  At his last words, a pain like a knife, sharp to agony, runs through me.  It is the grain of truth in his wicked, lying words that gives them their sting.  I was weary; I was depressed; I was bored, I fling out my arms with a sudden gesture of despair, and then, throwing myself down on the ground, bury my face in a great moss:  cushion, and put my fingers in my ears.

“O my God!” I cry, writhing, “what shall I do?—­how can I bear it?”

After a moment or two I sit up.

“How shameful of you!” I cry, bursting into a passion of tears.  “What sort of women can you have lived among? what a hateful mind you must have!  And I thought that you were a nice fellow, and that we were all so comfortable together!”

He has drawn back a pace or two, and now stands leaning against one of the bent and writhen trunks of the old trees.  He is still as pale as the dead, and looks all the paler for the burning darkness of his eyes.

“Is it possible,” he says, in a low tone of but half-suppressed fury, “that you are going to pretend to be surprised?”

“Pretend!” cry I, vehemently; “there is no pretense about it!  I never was so horribly, miserably surprised in all my life!”

And then, thinking of Barbara, I fall to weeping again, in utter bitterness and discomfiture.

“It is impossible!” he says, roughly.  “Whatever else you are, you are no fool; and a woman would have had to be blinder than any mole not to see whither I—­yes, and you, too—­have been tending!  If you meant to be surprised all along when it came to this, why did you make yourself common talk for the neighborhood with me?  Why did you press me, with such unconventional eagerness to visit you?  Why did you reproach me if I missed one day?”

“Why did I?” cry I, eagerly.  “Because—­”

Then I stop suddenly.  How, even to clear myself, can I tell him my real reason?

“And now,” he continues, with deepening excitement, “now that you reap your own sowing, you are surprised—­miserably surprised!”

“I am!” cry I, incoherently.  “You may not believe me, but it is true—­as true as that God is above us, and that I never, never was tired of Roger!”

I stop, choked with sobs.

“Yes,” he says, sardonically, “about as true.  But, be that as it may, you must at least be good enough to excuse me from expressing joy at his return, seeing that he fills the place which I am fool enough to covet, and which, but for him, might—­yes, say what you please, deny it as much as you like—­_-would_ have been mine!”