“And who has taken upon themselves to retail it to you?  That Cuerbo, I suppose?”

“It was not the Countess Cuerbo—­not that it matters if the actual fact is true.”

“Forgive me, Wilhelm,” she pleaded, “I thought to act for the best.  The whole story was chiefly for my mother’s benefit.  I wanted her to love you and be grateful to you.  I wanted her to take you to her heart like a son.  I do not care a bit about the other people.  I only told them the story to keep myself in practice.  And beside, you know what the world is.  A man’s personal worth goes for nothing, it only cares for the outward signs of success, and that is why I said you were a celebrated man and had a great future before you.  That is no invention, for I believe it firmly.  And I told them that you had saved my life, because it is true, for life was a burden to me till I knew you, and you have made it worth living.”

“But do you not see into what a degrading position you force me?”

“I hoped you would never hear about it.  My intentions were so good.  Our relations to one another must be explained in some way.  I wanted to shield your reputation from these people and shut their mouths.”

“You see, my poor Pilar,” said Wilhelm sadly, “your excuse is the bitterest criticism upon our relations.  You yourself feel how ugly the naked truth would look, and try to dress it up before the eyes of the world.  That kind of life cannot go on.  We are doomed to destruction in such an atmosphere of lies.  We must return somehow to truth and order.”  At his last words she let go of him and turned very pale.

“Ah, then it is only a pretext,” she cried; “you want to get up a quarrel with me as an excuse for breaking with me.  That is unmanly of you, that is cowardly.  Be frank, tell me straight out what you want.  I have a right to demand absolute candor of you.”

Her words stabbed him like a knife.  There was some truth in her accusation.  It was neither honest nor manly to make so much of her fibs when he had something very different in his mind.  She appealed to his candor—­she should not do so in vain.

“It was not a pretext,” he said, and forced himself to look into her face that seemed turning to stone, “but a prompting cause.  You ask for the truth, and you shall have it, for I owe it you.  Well then, things cannot remain as they are.  I cannot go on living as a hanger-on in this house.  I—­”

He sought painfully for words, but could find none.

Pilar breathed hard.  “Well—­in short—­” The words came out as if she were being strangled.

“In short, Pilar—­I must—­we shall have—­”

“I will not help you.  Finish—­you shall say the word.”

“We shall have to part, Pilar.”

“Wretch!” The cry wrenched itself from her breast.

Wilhelm rose and prepared to leave the room.  But at the same instant she had rushed to him, and clinging wildly to him, she cried, beside herself with anguish: