Norma continued, speaking gently, without haste or emotion, telling of the feverish brightness of those early days of marriage, and of the clouds that soon obscured the sunshine—­telling of the ennui and unhappiness, gradually sprouting and ripening in the ill-assorted union—­shielding the man, as women will, and casting the blame on the woman.  Finally she told of the separation, lasting now two years, and of the letter from his wife which had caused Thorne’s precipitate departure the day after the Shirley ball.

But of the divorce now pending she said never a word.

“Have they any children?” questioned Pocahontas steadily.

And was told that there was one—­a little son, to whom the father was attached, and the mother indifferent.  It was a strange case.

Again Pocahontas assented.  Her voice was cold and even; its tones low and slightly wearied.  To herself it appeared as though she spoke from a great distance, and was compelled to use exertion to make herself heard.  She was conscious of two distinct personalities—­one prostrate in the dust, humiliated, rent and bleeding, and another which held a screen pitifully before the broken thing, and shielded it from observation.  When Norma bid her good-night she responded quietly, and rising accompanied her guest to her room to see that every arrangement was perfect for her comfort.

Far into the night she sat beside her dying fire trying to collect her faculties, and realize the extent of the calamity which had befallen her.  The first, and, for the time, dominant emotion was a stinging sense of shame, an agony of rage and humiliation which tingled hotly through her, and caused her cheek to flame, and her body to writhe as from the lash of a whip.  She had been degraded; an insult had been put upon her.  Her eyes blazed, and her hands clinched.  Oh, for strength to hurl the insult back—­for a man’s arm and a man’s power to avenge the foul affront!  He—­a married man—­to come, concealing his bonds, and playing the part of a lover free to woo—­free to approach a woman and to win her heart!  The proud head bent to meet the hands upraised to cover the pale, drawn face.  She loved him and he was unworthy.  He had deceived and lied to her, if not in words, then in actions; knowing himself bound to another woman, he had deliberately sought her out and made her love him.  It was cruel, cruel!  All along she had played virgin gold against base metal, and now she was bankrupt.

When the burning, maddening sense of outrage had passed, and pride stood with lowered crest and listless hands, love lifted its head and tried to speak.  He was not without excuse, love pleaded; his life had been miserable; his lot hard and unendurable; he had been given a stone for bread, and for wine, the waters of Marah.  Until the night of the ball he had retained mastery over himself—­had held his love in check.  Then memory roused herself and entered testimony—­words, looks, tender, graceful attentions thronged back upon her, and pride caught love by the throat and cried out that there was no excuse.