She ceased speaking, and again waited for his answer, but he had none ready, and there was silence.  She had put the ugly truth too plainly before him, and he could not shut up his understanding against it; he could not deny what she said, he could never teach himself to believe that it did not matter.  And yet, he did not mean to draw back, or give up his purpose, even then.  Men of good birth had married peasant women before now.  They had given up the society of their old friends, they had lived in remote places, they had become half peasants themselves, their sons had grown up to be rough farmers, and had done obligatory military service in the ranks for years, because they could not pass an easy examination.  But was all that so very terrible after all, in the light of the duty that faced him?

The woman had saved his life, had carried him in her arms, had tended him like a child, had stolen food to keep him alive, had faced starvation for him when she had got him to the hospital, had nursed him—­had loved him, had given him all she had, and she would have died for him, if there had been need.  Now, she was giving him something more, for she was refusing to be his wife because she was sure that sooner or later she must be a burden to him, and that her birth would be a reproach to his children.  No woman could do more for a man than she had done.  She had been his salvation and his good angel; when she had found out that the life in Paris that amused her was killing him, she had brought him back to himself, she had made him at last fit and able to face those who would have destroyed him.  She had loved him like a woman, she had obeyed him and served him like a devoted servant, she had watched over him like a faithful dog; and he had given her nothing in return for all that, not one thing that deserved to be counted.  Perhaps he had not even really loved her; most surely his love had been far less large and true and devoted than hers, and he felt that it was so.  The reparation he was determined to make was not really for her honesty’s sake; it was to be an attempt at repaying a debt that was weighing upon his conscience like a debt of honour.

That was it.  He felt that unless he could in some way repay her for what she had done, his man’s honour would not be satisfied.  That was very well, in its way, but it was not love.  It was as if he had said to himself, “I cannot love her as she loves me, but I can at least marry her; and that is better than nothing, and has the merit of being morally right.”

She had told him that if she still made him happy he would not talk of marriage.  The brutal truth shamed him, now that he knew it from her own lips.  It was not the whole truth, but it was a great part of it.  If he was happy with her now, when there was nothing to disturb them, it was by force of habit, it was because her beauty appealed to him, it was because her touch was dearer to him than her heart’s devotion.  Now that he was a grown man, he knew well enough that he craved something else which poor Regina could never give him.