The little railway carriage in which we sat rocked with speed as we flew through the French landscape.  I caught glimpses of solid, Norman farm buildings, of towers and keeps and delicate steeples, and quaint towns; of bare poplars swaying before the March gusts, of green fields ablaze in the afternoon sun.  I took it all in distractedly.  Here was Maude beside me, but a Maude I had difficulty in recognizing, whom I did not understand:  who talked of a life she had built up for herself and that seemed to satisfy her; one with which I had nothing to do.  I could not tell how she regarded my re-intrusion.  As she continued to talk, a feeling that was almost desperation grew upon me.  I had things to say to her, things that every moment of this sort of intercourse was making more difficult.  And I felt, if I did not say them now, that perhaps I never should:  that now or never was the appropriate time, and to delay would be to drift into an impossible situation wherein the chance of an understanding would be remote.

There was a pause.  How little I had anticipated the courage it would take to do this thing!  My blood was hammering.

“Maude,” I said abruptly, “I suppose you’re wondering why I came over here.”

She sat gazing at me, very still, but there came into her eyes a frightened look that almost unnerved me.  She seemed to wish to speak, to be unable to.  Passively, she let my hand rest on hers.

“I’ve been thinking a great deal during the last few months,” I went on unsteadily.  “And I’ve changed a good many of my ideas—­that is, I’ve got new ones, about things I never thought of before.  I want to say, first, that I do not put forth any claim to come back into your life.  I know I have forfeited any claim.  I’ve neglected you, and I’ve neglected the children.  Our marriage has been on a false basis from the start, and I’ve been to blame for it.  There is more to be said about the chances for a successful marriage in these days, but I’m not going to dwell on that now, or attempt to shoulder off my shortcomings on my bringing up, on the civilization in which we have lived.  You’ve tried to do your share, and the failure hasn’t been your fault.  I want to tell you first of all that I recognize your right to live your life from now on, independently of me, if you so desire.  You ought to have the children—­” I hesitated a moment.  It was the hardest thing I had to say.  “I’ve never troubled myself about them, I’ve never taken on any responsibility in regard to their bringing up.”

“Hugh!” she cried.

“Wait—­I’ve got more to tell you, that you ought to know.  I shouldn’t be here to-day if Nancy Durrett had consented to—­to get a divorce and marry me.  We had agreed to that when this accident happened to Ham, and she went back to him.  I have to tell you that I still love her—­I can’t say how much, or define my feelings toward her now.  I’ve given up all idea of her.  I don’t think I’d marry her now, even if I had the chance, and you should decide to live away from me.  I don’t know.  I’m not so sure of myself as I once was.  The fact is, Maude, circumstances have been too much for me.  I’ve been beaten.  And I’m not at all certain that it wasn’t a cowardly thing for me to come back to you at all.”