Not that day, nor the next, could Monica listen to these entreaties.  But her sister at length prevailed.  It was late in the evening; Virginia had gone to bed, and the others sat silently, without occupation.  Miss Madden, after several vain efforts to speak, bent forward and said in a low, grave voice,—­

‘Monica—­you are deceiving us all.  You are guilty.’

‘Why do you say that?’

’I know it.  I have watched you.  You betray yourself when you are thinking.’

The other sat with brows knitted, with hard, defiant lips.

’All your natural affection is dead, and only guilt could have caused that.  You don’t care what becomes of your sister.  Only the fear, or the evil pride, that comes of guilt could make you refuse what we ask of you.  You are afraid to let your husband know of your condition.’

Alice could not have spoken thus had she not believed what she said.  The conviction had become irresistible to her mind.  Her voice quivered with intensity of painful emotion.

‘That last is true,’ said her sister, when there had been silence for a minute.

‘You confess it?  O Monica—­’

‘I don’t confess what you think,’ went on the younger, with more calmness than she had yet commanded in these discussions.

’Of that I am not guilty.  I am afraid of his knowing, because he will never believe me.  I have a proof which would convince anyone else; but, even if I produced it, it would be no use.  I don’t think it is possible to persuade him-when once he knows—­’

‘If you were innocent you would disregard that.’

’Listen to me, Alice.  If I were guilty I should not be living here at his expense.  I only consented to do that when I knew what my condition was.  But for this thing I should have refused to accept another penny from him.  I should have drawn upon my own money until I was able to earn my own living again.  If you won’t believe this it shows you know nothing of me.  Your reading of my face is all foolishness.’

‘I would to God I were sure of what you say!’ moaned Miss Madden, with vehemence which seemed extraordinary in such a feeble, flabby person.

‘You know that I told my husband lies,’ exclaimed Monica, ’so you think I am never to be trusted.  I did tell him lies; I can’t deny it, and I am ashamed of it.  But I am not a deceitful woman—­I can say that boldly.  I love the truth better than falsehood.  If it weren’t for that I should never have left home.  A deceitful woman, in my circumstances—­you don’t understand them—­would have cheated her husband into forgiving her—­such a husband as mine.  She would have calculated the most profitable course.  I left my husband because it was hateful to me to be with a man for whom I had lost every trace of affection.  In keeping away from him I am acting honestly.  But I have told you that I am also afraid of his making a discovery.  I want him to believe—­when the time comes—­’