“Hermione!” he cried, going up to her, and holding out his hand, all his proud resolves, all his hauteur, all his indignant anger melted into thin air.
She gave him no hand in return. The pale, sweet face was graver than he had ever seen it before.
“I did not think to see you here, Sir Ronald,” she said, coldly.
He had only seen her once since the night when he had kissed her among the flowers, and everything save the memory of that night seemed to die from him.
“How cruel you have been to me, Hermione; how you lured me on to my ruin and my doom; how false you are despite the fairness of that most fair face! If you had stabbed me, and trampled my dead body under foot, you would have been less cruel. What did I ever do, Hermione, that I deserved so cruel a fate?”
She looked up at him proudly.
“You have no right to speak to me,” she said. “You are married, and the kindness or cruelty of no other woman but your wife should concern you. Then I have not been cruel to you, Ronald, and you know it.”
There was something inexpressibly sad and pitiful in the whole scene. These two, who loved each other so dearly, who in the whole world cared only for each other, parted more completely than if death had separated them.
“I know that you did me the greatest wrong woman could do to man,” he replied.
“What was it?” she asked, the proud flush deepening on her face.