"Well," he asked—"do you still want to marry me ... now?"
For an instant the old hardness flashed back.
"You would have married her," she returned.
"I wonder," he said slowly. "I wonder ... if I should."
His gaze wandered vacantly round the room.
"She intoxicated me," he said. "Her memory intoxicates me still. She set fire to all my passions. She made me forget the barrier. But I think I really hated her. Perhaps ... if she hadn't died in the garden ... I might have killed her...."
The madness was leaving him, and the weakness of reaction taking its place. He put a hand on her shoulder, and leant heavily on her. His face was mild and kind—the face of the normal man.
"Phyllis," he said softly, "I mocked you, and treated you badly. But it wasn't really I. Forgive a poor madman the sins of his madness."
She made no attempt to check her tears. He took her hand, as gently as a child.
"Don't cry," he begged. "See—I am all right now. Sit down, and let us talk."