Of course he followed her; but he was not so quick after her but that time had been given to her to recover herself.  “It is true,” she said.  “I have the strength of which I tell you.  Though I have given myself to you as your wife, I can bear to be divorced from you now,—­now.  And, my love, though it may sound heartless, I would sooner be so divorced from you, than cling to you as a log that must drag you down under the water, and drown you in trouble and care.  I would;—­indeed I would.  If you go, of course that kind of thing is over for me.  But the world has more than that,—­much more; and I would make myself happy,—­yes, my love, I would be happy.  You need not fear that.”

“But, Lily, why is all this said to me here to-day?”

“Because it is my duty to say it.  I understand all your position now, though it is only now.  It never flashed on me till yesterday.  When you proposed to me, you thought that I—­that I had some fortune.”

“Never mind that now, Lily.”

“But you did.  I see it all now.  I ought perhaps to have told you that it was not so.  There has been the mistake, and we are both sufferers.  But we need not make the suffering deeper than needs be.  My love, you are free,—­from this moment.  And even my heart shall not blame you for accepting your freedom.”

“And are you afraid of poverty?” he asked her.

“I am afraid of poverty for you.  You and I have lived differently.  Luxuries, of which I know nothing, have been your daily comforts.  I tell you I can bear to part with you, but I cannot bear to become the source of your unhappiness.  Yes; I will bear it; and none shall dare in my hearing to speak against you.  I have brought you here to say the word; nay, more than that,—­to advise you to say it.”

He stood silent for a moment, during which he held her by the hand.  She was looking into his face, but he was looking away into the clouds; striving to appear as though he was the master of the occasion.  But during those moments his mind was wracked with doubt.  What if he should take her at her word?  Some few would say bitter things against him, but such bitter things had been said against many another man without harming him.  Would it not be well for both if he should take her at her word?  She would recover and love again, as other girls had done; and as for him, he would thus escape from the ruin at which he had been gazing for the last week past.  For it was ruin,—­utter ruin.  He did love her; so he declared to himself.  But was he a man who ought to throw the world away for love?  Such men there were; but was he one of them?  Could he be happy in that small house, somewhere near the New Road, with five children and horrid misgivings as to the baker’s bill?  Of all men living, was not he the last that should have allowed himself to fall into such a trap?  All this passed through his mind as he turned his face up to the clouds with a look that was intended to be grand and noble.