She raised her hands with something of her old imperious grace, and laid them on his arms, freeing herself with a single gesture.

“And all those years ago,” she said, “when you made me believe you had been trifling with me—­”

“I lied!” said Hone.  “It was the hardest thing I ever did.  But something had to be done.  I did it to save you suffering.”

She turned abruptly from him, moving blindly, till groping, she found the mantelpiece, and leaned upon it.  Then, her back to him, she spoke: 

“And you succeeded in breaking my heart.”

A sudden silence fell.  Hone stood motionless, his hands fallen to his sides.  The dull roar of the streets beat up through the stillness like the roar of a distant sea, bringing to mind a night long, long ago when first he had met his little princess, when first the gay charm of her personality had been cast upon him.

With a resolute effort he spoke.

“But you were scarcely more than a child,” he said.  “It—­sure, it couldn’t have been as bad as that?”

At the sound of the pain in his voice she slowly turned.

“It was much worse than that,” she said.  “While it lasted, it was intolerable.  There were times when I thought it would drive me crazy.  But you—­you were always there, and I think the sight of you kept me sane.  I hated you so.  I had to show you that I didn’t care.”

Again he heard in her voice that tremor that was not of fear.

“As long as my husband lived,” she went on, “I kept up the miserable farce.  As you know, we never loved each other.  Then he died, and I found I couldn’t bear it any longer.  There was no reason why I should.  I went away.  I should never have seen you again, only Mrs. Chester would take no refusal.  And I had put it all away from me by that time.  I felt it did not greatly matter if we did meet.  Nothing seemed of much importance till that day I saw you on the polo ground, carrying all before you—­Achilles triumphant!  That day I began to hate you again.”  A faint smile drew the corners of her mouth.  “I think you suspected it,” she said, “but your suspicions were soon lulled to rest.  Did it never cross your mind to wonder how we came to pair on that night of the river picnic?  I accused you of cheating, do you remember?  And you were quite indignant.”  A glimmer of the old gay mischief shone for a fleeting second through her tragedy.  “That was the first move in the game,” she said.  “At least you never suspected me of that.”

“No; you had me there.”  There was a ring of sternness in Hone’s voice.  “So that was the beginning?” he said.

She nodded.

“And it would have been the end also, if you would have suffered it.  For that very night I ceased to hate you.”  A faint flush tinged her pale face.  “I would have let you off,” she said.  “I didn’t want to go on.  But you would not have it so.  You came after me.  You wouldn’t leave me alone, even though I warned you—­I warned you that I wasn’t worth your devotion.  And so”—­again her voice trembled—­“you had to have your lesson after all.”