Blecker could hardly repress a smile.

“You are coming to political economy by a woman’s road, Grey.”

“I don’t know what that is.  I know what my life was then.  I was only a child; but when that man came and held out his hand to take me, I was willing when they gave me to him,—­when they sold me, Doctor Blecker.  It was like leaving some choking pit, where air was given to me from other lungs, to go out and find it for my own.  What marriage was or ought to be I did not know; but I wanted, as every human being does want, a place for my own feet to stand on, not to look forward to the life of an old maid, living on sufferance, always the one too many in the house.”

“That is weak and vulgar argument, child.  It should not touch a true woman, Grey.  Any young girl can find work and honorable place for herself in the world, without the defilement of a false marriage.”

“I know that now.  But young girls are not taught that.  I was only a child, not strong-willed.  And now, when I’m free,”—­a curious clearness coming to her eye,—­“I’m glad to think of it all.  I never blame other women.  Because, you see,”—­looking up with the flickering smile,—­“a woman’s so hungry for something of her own to love, for some one to be kind to her, for a little house and parlor and kitchen of her own; and if she marries the first man who says he loves her, out of that first instinct of escape from dependence, and hunger for love, she does not know she is selling herself, until it’s too late.  The world’s all wrong, somehow.”

She stopped, her troubled face still upturned to his.

“But you,—­you are free now?”

“He is dead.”

She slowly rose as she spoke, her voice hardening.

“He was my cousin, you know,—­the same name as mine.  Only a year he was with me.  Then he went to Cuba, where he died.  He is dead.  But I am not free,”—­lifting her hands fiercely, as she spoke.  “Nothing can wipe the stain of that year off of me.”

“You know what man he was,” said the Doctor, with a natural thrill of pleasure that he could say it honestly.  “I know, poor child!  A vapid, cruel tyrant, weak, foul.  You hated him, Grey?  There’s a strength of hatred in your blood.  Answer me.  You dare speak truth to me.”

“He’s dead now,”—­with a long, choking breath.  “We will not speak of him.”

She stood a moment, looking down the stretch of curdling black water,—­then, turning with a sudden gesture, as though she flung something from her, looked at him with a pitiful effort to smile.

“I don’t often think of that time.  I cannot bear pain very well.  I like to be happy.  When I’m busy now, or playing with little Pen, I hardly believe I am the woman who was John Gurney’s wife.  I was so old then!  I was like a hard, tigerish soul, tried and tempted day by day.  He made me that.”

She could not bear pain, he saw:  remembrance of it, alone, made the flesh about her lips blue, unsteadied her brain; the well-accented face grew vacant, dreary; neither nerves nor will of this woman were tough.  Her family were not the stuff out of which voluntary heroes are made.  He saw, too, she was thrusting it back,—­out of thought:  it was her temperament to do that.