“I trust,” he said, “that you will explain what all this means.  If it is my help which you require—­”

Her hands flashed out towards him—­a gesture almost of horror.

“Don’t,” she begged, “you know that it is not that!  You know very well that it is not.  Why do you torture me?”

“I can only ask you,” he said, “to explain.”

She commenced talking quickly.  Her sentences came in little gasps.

“You wanted revenge—­not in the ordinary way.  You had brooded over it too long.  You understood too well.  Once it was I who sought to revenge myself on you because you would not listen to me!  You hurt my pride.  Everything that was evil in me rebelled—­”

“Is this necessary?” he interrupted coldly.  “I have never reproached you.  You chose the path of safety for yourself.  Many another woman in your place would doubtless have done the same thing!  What I desire to know is why you are here in Cornwall.  What has happened to make this journey seem necessary to you?”

“Listen!” she continued.  “I want you to know how thoroughly you have succeeded.  Before you came, Lumley and I were living together decently enough, and, as hundreds of others live, with outside interests for our chief distraction.  You came, a friend!  You were very subtle, very skillful!  You never spoke a word of affection to me, but you managed things so that—­people talked.  You encouraged Lumley to speculate—­not in actual words, perhaps, but by suggestion.  Then you lent me money.  Lumley, my husband, let me borrow from you.  Everyone knew that we were ruined; everyone knew where the money came from that set us right.  So misery has been piled upon misery.  Lumley has lost his self respect, he is losing his ambition, he is deteriorating every day.  I—­how can I do anything else but despise him?  He let me, his wife, come to your rooms to borrow money from you.  Do you think I can ever forget that?  Do you think that he can?  Don’t you know that the memory of it is dragging us apart, must keep us apart always—­always?”

Wingrave leaned a little forward.  His hands were clasped upon the handle of his stick.

“All that you tell me,” he remarked coldly, “might equally well have been said in London!  I do not wish to seem inhospitable, but I am still waiting to know why you have taken an eight hours’ journey to recite a few fairly obvious truths.  Your relations with your husband, frankly, do not interest me.  The deductions which society may have drawn concerning our friendship need scarcely trouble you, under the circumstances.”

Then again the light was blazing in her eyes.