"What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one—who perhaps was loved once."
He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he was all at sea. "I wish to hear nothing," he said.
"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,—after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?"
"I do not think that I am mean."
"No;—a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is—this lady?"
He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "I can not name her."
"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have—changed your affections? That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,—without a pang, without a scruple?"
"I did not say so."
"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?"
"I hope not."