“Whose fault was it,” he interrupted, “that I was not with you?  Did I not offer—­entreat?  I could not sign a statement of fact which seemed to me an untrue statement, but what prevented me—­prevented us.—­However, let me take that point first.  Would you,”—­he spoke deliberately, “would you have had me put my name to a public statement which I, rightly or wrongly, believed to be false, because you asked me?  You owe it to me to answer.”

She could not escape the penetrating fire of his eye.  The man’s mildness, his quiet self-renouncing reserve, were all burnt up at last in this white heat of an accusing passion.  In return she began to forget her own resolve to bear herself gently.

“You don’t remember,” she cried, “that what divided us was your—­your—­incapacity to put the human pity first; to think of the surrounding circumstances—­of the debt that you and I and everybody like us owe to a man like Hurd—­to one who had been stunted and starved by life as he had been.”

Her lip began to tremble.

“Then it comes to this,” he said steadily, “that if I had been a poor man, you would have allowed me my conscience—­my judgment of right and wrong—­in such a matter.  You would have let me remember that I was a citizen, and that pity is only one side of justice!  You would have let me plead that Hurd’s sin was not against me, but against the community, and that in determining whether to do what you wished or no, I must think of the community and its good before even I thought of pleasing you.  If I had possessed no more than Hurd, all this would have been permitted me; but because of Maxwell Court—­because of my money,”—­she shrank before the accent of the word—­“you refused me the commonest moral rights. My scruple, my feeling, were nothing to you.  Your pride was engaged as well as your pity, and I must give way.  Marcella! you talk of justice—­you talk of equality—­is the only man who can get neither at your hands—­the man whom you promised to marry!”

His voice dwelt on that last word, dwelt and broke.  He leant over her in his roused strength, and tried to take her hand.  But she moved away from him with a cry.

“It is no use!  Oh, don’t—­don’t!  It may be all true.  I was vain, I dare say, and unjust, and hard.  But don’t you see—­don’t you understand—­if we could take such different views of such a case—­if it could divide us so deeply—­what chance would there be if we were married?  I ought never—­never—­to have said ‘Yes’ to you—­even as I was then.  But now,” she turned to him slowly, “can’t you see it for yourself?  I am a changed creature.  Certain things in me are gone—­gone—­and instead there is a fire—­something driving, tormenting—­which must burn its way out.  When I think of what I liked so much when you asked me to marry you—­being rich, and having beautiful things, and dresses, and jewels, and servants, and power—­social power—­above all that—­I