Could it be Kitty who was speaking? Rupert scarcely recognised those broken, uneven tones. He went on slowly.
"She left me at last. We agreed to separate. I saw her from time to time, and made her an allowance. She lived in one place: I in another. She died last year."
"Last year?"
"Yes, in the autumn. You heard that I had gone into Wales to see a relation who was dying: that was my wife."
"Did Percival know?" asked Kitty, in a low voice.
"No. I think very few persons knew. I wonder whether I ought to have told the world in general! I did not want to blazon forth my shame."
For a little time they both were silent. Then Rupert said, softly:—
"When she was dead, I remembered the little girl whom I used to know in Gower-street; and I said to myself that I would find her out."
"You found her changed," said Kitty, with a sob.
"Very much changed outwardly; but with the same loving heart at the core. Kitty, I was unjust to you: I have come back to offer reparation."