Deep colour came on Emilia.  “You struck him, Wilfrid?”

“It was a small punishment for his infamous lie, and, whatever might be the consequences, I would do it again.”

“Wilfrid, I have heard what he has said.  Madame Marini has told me.  I wish you had not struck him.  I cannot think of him apart from the days when I had my voice.  I cannot bear to think of your having hurt him.  He was not to blame.  That is, he did not say:  it was not untrue.”

She took a breath to make this last statement, and continued with the same peculiar implicity of distinctness, which a terrific thunder of “What?” from Wilfrid did not overbear:  “I was quite mad that day I went to him.  I think, in my despair I spoke things that may have led him to fancy the truth of what he has said.  On my honour, I do not know.  And I cannot remember what happened after for the week I wandered alone about London.  Mr. Powys found me on a wharf by the river at night.”

A groan burst from Wilfrid.  Emilia’s instinct had divined the antidote that this would be to the poison of revived love in him, and she felt secure, though he had again taken her hand; but it was she who nursed a mere sentiment now, while passion sprang in him, and she was not prepared for the delirium with which he enveloped her.  She listened to his raving senselessly, beginning to think herself lost.  Her tortured hands were kissed; her eyes gazed into.  He interpreted her stupefaction as contrition, her silence as delicacy, her changeing of colour as flying hues of shame:  the partial coldness at their meeting he attributed to the burden on her mind, and muttering in a magnanimous sublimity that he forgave her, he claimed her mouth with force.

“Don’t touch me!” cried Emilia, showing terror.

“Are you not mine?”

“You must not kiss me.”

Wilfrid loosened her waist, and became in a minute outwardly most cool and courteous.

“My successor may object.  I am bound to consider him.  Pardon me.  Once!—­”

The wretched insult and silly emphasis passed harmlessly from her:  but a word had led her thoughts to Merthyr’s face, and what is meant by the phrase ‘keeping oneself pure,’ stood clearly in Emilia’s mind.  She had not winced; and therefore Wilfrid judged that his shot had missed because there was no mark.  With his eye upon her sideways, showing its circle wide as a parrot’s, he asked her one of those questions that lovers sometimes permit between themselves.  “Has another—?” It is here as it was uttered.  Eye-speech finished the sentence.

Rapidly a train of thought was started in Emilia, and she came to this conclusion, aloud:  “Then I love nobody!” For the had never kissed Merthyr, or wished for his kiss.

“You do not?” said Wilfrid, after a silence.  “You are generous in being candid.”

A pressure of intensest sorrow bowed his head.  The real feeling in him stole to Emilia like a subtle flame.