‘Think what, George?’

’That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word was worth no reliance.’

’I thought no evil of you, George,—­except that you were changed to me.  When you came, you said nothing to me.  Do you not remember?’

’I came because I was told that you were to be married to this man.  I asked you the question, and you would not deny it.  Then I said to myself that I would wait and see.’  When he had spoken she had nothing farther to say to him.  The charges which he made against her were all true.  They seemed at least to be true to her then in her present mood,—­in that mood in which all that she now desired was his forgiveness.  The wish to defend herself, and to stand before him as one justified, had gone from her.  She felt that having still possessed his love, having still been the owner of the one thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her own doubts; and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder.  ’It is of no use to think of it any more,’ he said at last.  ’You have to become this man’s wife now, and I suppose you must go through with it.’

‘I suppose I must,’ she said; ‘unless—­’

‘Unless what?’

’Nothing, George.  Of course I will marry him.  He has my word.  And I have promised my uncle also.  But, George, you will say that you forgive me?’

‘Yes;—­I will forgive you.’  But still there was the same black cloud upon his face,—­the same look of pain,—­the same glance of anger in his eye.

’O George, I am so unhappy!  There can be no comfort for me now, unless you will say that you will be contented.’

‘I cannot say that, Marie.’

’You will have your house, and your business, and so many things to interest you.  And in time,—­after a little time—­’

’No, Marie, after no time at all.  You told me at supper to-night that I had better get a wife for myself.  But I will get no wife.  I could not bring myself to marry another girl, I could not take a woman home as my wife if I did not love her.  If she were not the person of all persons most dear to me, I should loathe her.’

He was speaking daggers to her, and he must have known how sharp were his words.  He was speaking daggers to her, and she must have felt that he knew how he was wounding her.  But yet she did not resent his usage, even by a motion of her lip.  Could she have brought herself to do so, her agony would have been less sharp.  ’I suppose,’ she said at last, ’that a woman is weaker than a man.  But you say that you will forgive me?’

‘I have forgiven you.’

Then very gently she put out her hand to him, and he took it and held it for a minute.  She looked up at him as though for a moment she had thought that there might be something else,—­that there might be some other token of true forgiveness, and then she withdrew her hand.  ‘I had better go now,’ she said.  ‘Good-night; George.’