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came into the drawing-room of the magnificent apartment
they had rented from Isabel Gilles, the landlady of La Croix
de Fer. Marie was sitting there, in tears. Sti shook his head
drearily and took a chair at the other end of the room. It
was hard to see her weep and to know that every word
of comfort from his lips, every sympathetic sigh or
compassionate look, merely added bitterness to her grief and
made her tears flow faster.
He went up to her.
“Marie,” he said in a low, husky voice, “let us have
one more talk and then part.”
“What is the good of that?”
“Nay, Marie, there are yet happy days awaiting you,
even now they are coming thick and fast.”
“Ay, days of mourning and nights of weeping in an
endless, unbreakable chain.”
“Marie, Marie, have a care what you say, for I
understand the meaning of your words as you never think to
have me, and they wound me cruelly.”
“I reck but little of wounds that are stung with words
for daggers. It was never in my mind to spare you them.”
“Then drive the weapon home, and do not pity me—not
for one instant. Tell me that my love has besmirched
you and humbled you in the dust! Tell me that you would
give years of your life to tear from your heart every
memory of me! And make a dog of me and call me cur. Call me
by every shameful name you know, and I will answer to
every one and say you are right; for I know you are right,
you are, though it’s torture to say so! Hear me, Marie,
hear me and believe if you can: though I know you loathe
yourself because you have been mine, and sicken in your
soul when you think of it, and frown with disgust and
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