"Nor I," she murmured.
"No? Then why do you ask me to come and see you?"
She did not answer.
He looked round the pretty shaded room.
He laughed again.
"There is a difference," he said, "in you too."
She looked up quickly.
"I am the same," she said, knowing her own heart.
"Are you?" His eyes grew stormy. "Listen," he said, in a low, tense voice: "I am five years wiser than I was—then. I will not be a tool again. You have ruined my life—doesn't that content you? I would have staked my life on your goodness and purity—once. I dare not believe in any woman since you, with your angel's eyes, are false. I was full of ambition and hope once; you killed both. I tried to write—after. I could not. I shall never do anything now—never be anything. I despise myself, and it's not a nice feeling to live with. It makes men desperate. I love you still. Do you understand? I have loved you all the time, and I loathe myself for it." His voice changed. "You may triumph," he said, "but now you understand—I will not come again."