“She told you what?”

It is a last effort to spare——­ To spare whom?  Marian or himself—­or——­ All at once he knows it is Tita whom he would spare.

“Ah, that is useless,” says Tita, with a slight gesture.  “She told me a great deal then; she has told me more to-day.”

“To-day?”

“A few last items,” says the girl, her eyes burning into his as she stands before him, her hand upon his breast.  “Shall I tell them to you?  You married me for my money!  You ruined your life”—­she seems to be looking back and repeating things that had been said to her—­“by doing that.  Your mother” slowly, “seemed sorry that your life was ruined!”

"Tita!"

“No, listen; there is a little more.  You only consented to make me your wife when you found Mrs. Bethune would not have you.”

“You shall hear me,” says he.

His face is as white as death now, but she silences him.  She lifts her small, cold hand from his breast, and lays it on his lips that are nearly as cold.

“You proposed to her four times!  All your love was hers!  And it was only when hope was dead—­when life seemed worthless—­that you—­married me.”

“She told you that—­all that?” asks Rylton; he has caught her hand.

“All that—­and more.”  Tita is smiling now, but very pitifully.  “But that was enough.  Why take it to heart?  It is nothing, really.  It does not concern us.  Of course, I always knew.  You told me—­that you did not love me.”

“I shall not forgive her,” says Rylton fiercely.

There is anguish as well as rage in his tone.  He is holding her hand tightly clenched between both his own.

“I don’t care whether you do or not,” says Tita suddenly, almost violently.  “You can forgive her or not, as you choose.  The whole thing,” dragging her hand forcibly from his, “is a matter of no consequence whatever to me!"

“You mean that you don’t care?” says Rylton, in a suffocating voice.

“Care!” contemptuously.  “No!  Why should I care, or wonder, or waste one thought upon your love affairs?”

This insolent answer rouses Rylton from his remorse.

“Why, indeed!” says he, stung by her scorn.  “You have your own to think of!"

And now a terrible thing happens—­swift as lightning she lifts her hand, and gives him a little stinging blow across his face.

A second afterwards she has her hands upon her breast, and is crying affrightedly.

“I’m sorry—­I’m sorry—­I’m sorry!"

Yet through all the fright he can hear there is not an atom of real sorrow in her voice.

“Let that alone,” says he, smiling grimly.  “I dare say I deserved it.  I take it meekly, as you see.  But now—­how is it to be between us?”

“You know.  You ought to know.  We agreed before our marriage that you were to go your way, and I—­mine!”