"That is absurd. I have a right to demand from you such a pledge. I am willing to believe that you have not—"
"Have not what?"
"That you have not utterly disgraced me."
"God in heaven, that I should hear this!" she exclaimed. "Louis Trevelyan, I have not disgraced you at all,—in thought, in word, in deed, in look, or in gesture. It is you that have disgraced yourself, and ruined me, and degraded even your own child."
"Is this the way in which you welcome me?"
"Certainly it is,—in this way and in no other if you speak to me of what is past, without acknowledging your error." Her brow became blacker and blacker as she continued to speak to him. "It would be best that nothing should be said,—not a word. That it all should be regarded as an ugly dream. But, when you come to me and at once go back to it all, and ask me for a promise—"
"Am I to understand then that all idea of submission to your husband is to be at an end?"
"I will submit to no imputation on my honour,—even from you. One would have thought that it would have been for you to preserve it untarnished."
"And you will give me no assurance as to your future life?"
"None;—certainly none. If you want promises from me, there can be no hope for the future. What am I to promise? That I will not have—a lover? What respect can I enjoy as your wife if such a promise be needed? If you should choose to fancy that it had been broken you would set your policeman to watch me again! Louis, we can never live together again ever with comfort, unless you acknowledge in your own heart that you have used me shamefully."