“Under the circumstances!” she repeated.  “I know what you mean.  It is true that you have asked for nothing.  It is true that all this time you have never spoken a single word which all the world might not hear, you have never even touched my fingers, except as a matter of formality.  Once I was the woman you loved—­and I—­well you know!  Is this part of your scheme of torture, to play with me as though we were marionettes, you and I, with sawdust in our veins, dull, lifeless puppets!  Well, it is finished—­your vengeance!  You may reap the harvest when you will!  Publish my letters, prove yourself an injured man.  Take a whip in your hand if you like, and I will never flinch.  But, for heaven’s sake, remember that I am a woman!  I am willing to be your slave, nurse you, wait upon you, follow you about!  What more can your vengeance need?  You have made me despise my husband, you have made me hate my life with him!  You have forced me into a remembrance of what I have never really forgotten—­and oh!  Wingrave,” she added, opening her arms to him with a little sob, “if you send me away, I think that I shall kill myself.  Wingrave!”

There was a note of despair in her last cry.  Her arms fell to her side.  Wingrave was on his way to the further end of the room.  He rang the bell and turned towards her.

“Listen,” he said calmly, “you will return to London tonight.  If ever I require you, I shall send for you—­and you will come.  At present I do not.  You will return to your husband.  Understand!”

“Yes,” she gasped, “but—­”

He held out his hand.  Morrison was at the door.

“Morrison,” he said, “you will order the motor to be round in half an hour to take Lady Ruth to Truro, She has to catch the London express.  You will go with her yourself, and see that she has a reserved carriage.  If, by any chance, you should miss the train, order a special.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And tell the cook to send in tea and wine, and some sandwiches, in ten minutes.”

Once more they were alone.  Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet and, trembling in every limb, she walked down the room and fell on her knees before Wingrave.

“Wingrave,” she said, “I will go away.  I will do all that you tell me; I will wear my chains bravely, and hold my peace.  But before I go, for heaven’s sake, say a kind word, look at me kindly, kiss me, hold my hands; anything, anything, anything to prove to me that you are not a dead man.  I could bear unkindness, reproaches, abuse.  I can bear anything but this deadly coldness.  It is becoming a horror to me!  Do, Wingrave—­do!”

She clasped his hand—­he drew it calmly away.

“Lady Ruth,” he said, “you have spoken the truth.  I am a dead man.  I have no affections; I care neither for you nor for any living being.  All that goes to the glory and joy of life perished in that uncountable roll of days, when the sun went out, and inch by inch the wall rose which will divide me forever from you and all the world.  Frankly, it was not I who once loved you.  It was the man who died in prison.  His flesh and bones may have survived—­nothing else!”