She had made her long speech with breaks, but I had not interrupted her. And now that she had finished I did not speak till she looked at me in wonder.
"I am thinking. I see that it comes to this, madame. I must renounce either my work or my wife."
She suddenly stretched out her hand. "Oh, I would not have you renounce your work, monsieur!"
A chair stood in front of her, and I brushed it away and let it clatter on the floor.
"Mary! Mary, you love me!"
"No, no!" she cried. "No, monsieur, it need not mean I love you,—it need not." She fled from me and placed a table between us. "Surely a woman can understand a man's power, and glory in it—yes, glory in it, monsieur—without loving the man!"
"But if you did love me,—if you did love me, what then?"
"Oh, monsieur, the misery of it for us if we loved! I have seen it from the beginning, though at times I forgot. For there is nothing for us but to part."
"Many women have forgotten country for their husbands. The world has called them wise."
She put out her hand. "Not in my family, monsieur."