"Wouldn't it be better, dear Mrs. Brokenshire," I asked, "to consider whether or not you can ever forgive him?"
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at me. Seated in a low arm-chair beside her bed, in an old-rose-colored kimono, my dark hair hanging down my back, I was not a fascinating object of study, even in the light of one small, distant, shaded bedroom lamp.
"What should I forgive him for?—for loving me?"
"Yes, for loving you—in that way."
"He loves me—"
"So much that he could see you dishonored and disgraced—and shunned by decent people all the rest of your life—just to gratify his own desires. It seems to me you may have to forgive him for that."
"He asked me to do only what I would have done willingly—if it hadn't been for you."
"But he asked you. The responsibility is in that. You didn't make the suggestion; he did."
"He didn't make it till I'd let him see—"
"Too much. Forgive me for saying it, dear Mrs. Brokenshire; but do you think a woman should ever go so far to meet a man as you did?"