'Saul Fielding,' she says, after a pause during which she feels nothing but ruth for his misery, 'you are a bit of a scholar; you have gifts that others could turn to account, if they had them. Before you--you----'
'Went wrong,' he adds, as she hesitates, 'I know what you want to say. Go on, Mrs. Naldret. Your words don't hurt me.'
'Before that time, George used to come home full of admiration for you and your gifts. He said that you were the best-read man in all the trade, and I'm sure, to hear you speak is proof enough of that. Well, let be, Saul; let the past die, and make up your mind, like a man, to do better in the future.'
'Let the past die!' he repeats, as through the clouds that darken his mind rifts of human love shine, under the influence of which his voice grows indescribably soft and tender. 'Let the past die! No, not for a world of worlds. Though it is filled with shame, I would not let it go.--What are you looking for?'
'It's Jim's time--my husband's--for coming home,' she says, a little anxiously, looking up the street. 'He mightn't like----' But again she hesitates and stumbles over her words.
'To see you talking to me. He shall not My eyes are better than his, and the moment I see him turn the corner of the street, I will go.'
'What were you looking through the shutters for?'
'I wanted to see if George was at home.'
'And supposing he had been?'
'I should have waited in the street until he came out.'