He slipped his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out a little plain black leather case.  When he opened it she saw that it contained a pen-and-ink sketch of herself that had been done one evening by a young artist staying at the Court, and—­a bunch of traveller’s joy.

She gazed at it with a mixture of happiness and pain.  It reminded her of cold and selfish thoughts, and set them in relief against his constancy.  But she had given away all rights—­even the right to hate herself.  Piteously, childishly, with seeking eyes, she held out her hand to him, as though mutely asking him for the answer to her outpouring—­the last word of it all.  He caught her whisper.

“Forgive?” he said to her, scorning her for the first and only time in their history.  “Does a man forgive the hand that sets him free, the voice that recreates him?  Choose some better word—­my wife!”