Strangway.  Did he try to get you away from me? [Beatrice gives him a swift look] Tell me the truth!

Beatrice.  No.  It was—­I—­alone.  But—­he loves me.

Strangway.  One does not easily know love, it seems.

     [But her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is enough, and he
     turns away from her.]

Beatrice.  It was cruel to come, I know.  For me, too.  But I couldn’t write.  I had to know.

Strangway.  Never loved me?  Never loved me?  That night at Tregaron? [At the look on her face] You might have told me before you went away!  Why keep me all these——­

Beatrice.  I meant to forget him again.  I did mean to.  I thought I could get back to what I was, when I married you; but, you see, what a girl can do, a woman that’s been married—­can’t.

Strangway.  Then it was I—­my kisses that——! [He laughs] How did you stand them? [His eyes dart at her face] Imagination helped you, perhaps!

Beatrice.  Michael, don’t, don’t!  And—­oh! don’t make a public thing of it!  You needn’t be afraid I shall have too good a time!

     [He stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in
     him makes his face so strange that Beatrice stands aghast.  At
     last she goes stumbling on in speech]

If ever you want to marry some one else—­then, of course—­that’s only fair, ruin or not.  But till then—­till then——­He’s leaving Durford, going to Brighton.  No one need know.  And you—­this isn’t the only parish in the world.

Strangway. [Quietly] You ask me to help you live in secret with another man?

Beatrice.  I ask for mercy.

Strangway. [As to himself] What am I to do?

Beatrice.  What you feel in the bottom of your heart.

Strangway.  You ask me to help you live in sin?

Beatrice.  To let me go out of your life.  You’ve only to do—­ nothing. [He goes, slowly, close to her.]

Strangway.  I want you.  Come back to me!  Beatrice, come back!

Beatrice.  It would be torture, now.

Strangway. [Writhing] Oh!

Beatrice.  Whatever’s in your heart—­do!

Strangway.  You’d come back to me sooner than ruin him?  Would you?

Beatrice.  I can’t bring him harm.

Strangway. [Turning away] God!—­if there be one help me! [He stands leaning his forehead against the window.  Suddenly his glance falls on the little bird cage, still lying on the window-seat] Never cage any wild thing! [He gives a laugh that is half a sob; then, turning to the door, says in a low voice] Go!  Go please, quickly!  Do what you will.  I won’t hurt you—­can’t——­But—­go! [He opens the door.]

Beatrice. [Greatly moved] Thank you!