"I can hardly tell you," she said at length. "He seemed to hate me."
"You!"
"I have seen the same thing twice, with other men and other women. You see, it was a terrible blow to him—his vanity, his pride—to stop loving me."
"I don't understand."
"You may not, ever. But he had had unworthy things in his life, attachments, those that last a short time. When he cared for me, he thought he cared tremendously. He believed it would last. But it didn't. He had nothing left to give me."
"He had gambled it away!"
"I think it hurt his pride. He could only justify himself unconsciously—it was all unconscious—by finding fault with me. By proving I was not worthy to be loved. Do you see?"
"You are a strange woman to have guessed that. You must be very clever."
"No, oh, no! It was because I thought so hard about it. For a long time, night after night, I thought of nothing else. When it died—what he called love—I thought the world died, too."
"My dear good child!"