"Your wife."

The words come like a knife from between her clenched teeth.

“With Tita was almost accomplished—­but not quite—­I spoke to you again, but you still held back.  You let me go—­you deliberately gave me up to another.  Was that love?  I tell you,” says he vehemently, “that all the money the world contains would not have forced me from you at that time.  You of your own accord put me outside your life.  Was that love?”

“I was content to wait.  I did not seek another in marriage.  I, too, was poor.  But I swore to myself to live and die a pauper—­for your sake, if—­if no help came to us.”  She pauses.  A sigh—­a cruel sigh bursts from her lips.  “No help came.”

She is deadly white.  A sudden reaction from hope, sure and glorious, to horrible despair is mastering her.  She had not thought, she had not known she loved him so well until now, when it has begun to dawn upon her that he no longer loves her.

In all her life no gladness had come to her until she met Rylton, and then her heart went forth, but without the full generosity of one who had been fed with love from its birth.  Soured, narrowed by her surroundings, and chilled by a dread of the poverty she had so learned to fear, she had hung back when joy was offered to her, and now that joy was dead.  It would be hers never, never!  The love on which she had been counting all these days,

    “For which I cry both day and night,
    For which I let slip all delight,
    Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
    Careless to win, unskilled to find,”

is hers no longer.  Deaf and blind she has been indeed.

A little faintness falls on her; she sways, and Rylton, catching her, presses her into a chair.  His touch recalls her to life, and rouses within her a sudden outbreak of passion.

“Maurice!”—­she holds him with both her hands—­“I will not believe it.  It is not true!  You love me still!  You do, you do.  I was”—­she lets his arms go and raises her hands to his shoulders, and, leaning back, gazes with wild, beautiful, beseeching eyes into his face—­“wrong—­foolish—­mad, I think, when I flung from me the only good that Heaven ever gave me, but—­but for all that you love me still.”  She pauses.  His eyes are on the ground; he looks like a criminal condemned to death.  “Say it, say it,” whispers she hoarsely.  There is a silence that speaks.  He can feel the shudder that runs through her.  It nerves him.

“All this,” he says—­his voice is low and harsh, because of the agony of the moment—­“all this comes——­”

He grows silent.  He cannot say it. She can.

"Too late?"

The words fall like a knell, yet there is a question in them, and one that must be answered.

“Too late!” repeats he.  He could have cursed himself, yet it had to be done.  He frees himself from her and stands back.  “Why do you compel me to say such things?” cries he violently.