“Acts—­words—­whose acts?” asks he slowly.

“Tita’s.”

“Lady Rylton’s?  What do you mean?”

He shakes himself suddenly free of the touch that has grown hateful to him.

“I mean,” says she boldly, still unconscious of his real meaning of the abyss that lies before her, “that you can at any moment get rid of her.  You can at any moment get a divorce!”

“By lying?” says he, with agitation.  “By”—­vehemently—­“dragging her name into the dust.  By falsely, grossly swearing against her.”

“Why take it so much to heart?” says she, again coming close to him.  “She would not care, she would help you.  She could then marry her cousin.  We could all see how that was.  Would it be such false swearing after all?”

“Don’t!” says Rylton, in a suffocating tone.

“Ah, Maurice, I understand you.  I know how your honour revolts from such a step, but it is only a step—­one—­one, and then—­we——­” She covers her eyes with her hands and leans heavily against the table behind her.  “We should be together—­for ever,” whispers she faintly.

A long, long silence follows this.  It seems to hold, to envelop the room.  It is like darkness!  All at once Marian begins to tremble.  She lifts her head.

“You do not speak,” says she.  There is something frantic in her low voice—­an awful fear.  The first dawn of the truth is breaking on her, but as yet the light is imperfect.  “You do not speak,” she repeats, and now her voice is higher, shriller; there is agony in it.  “You mean—­you mean——­ What do you mean, Maurice?”

“What can I mean?  You called me just now an honourable man.”

“Ah, your honour!” says she bitterly.

“You, at least, can find no flaw in it,” says he suddenly.

“No?  Was it an honourable man who married that girl for her money, loving me all the time?  You,” passionately, “you did love me then?”

There is question in her tone.

“The dishonour was to her, not to you,” returns he, his eyes bent on the ground.

“Oh, forget her!  What has she got to do with us?” cries she, with a sudden burst of angry misery, stung by the fact that he had given no answer to that last question of hers.  “You loved me once.  You loved me.  Oh, Maurice,” smiting her hands together, “you cannot have forgotten that!  You cannot.  Why should I remember if you forget?  Each kiss of yours, each word, is graven on my soul!  When I am dead, perhaps I shall forget, but not till then; and you—­you, too—­you must remember!”

“I remember!”

He is looking white and haggard.

“Ah!”

There is a quick triumphant note in her voice.

“But what?” he goes on quickly.  “What have I to remember about you?  That I prayed you on my knees day after day to give yourself to me.  To risk the chances of poverty, to marry me—­and,” slowly, “I remember, too, your answer.  It was always ’No’.  You loved me, you said, but you would wait.  Poverty frightened you.  I would have given my life for you, you would not give even your comfort for me.  Even when my engagement with—­with——­”