She looked at him. His face was earnest and agitated, the eloquent eyes seemed to rain love into her own. It was hard to resist him, and yet he had been so cruel.
"Why have you never written to me all these years, Ulric?" she asked, and he knew that the faltering voice meant good for him.
"My darling, I tell you I dared not. No man ever so sinned against a woman as I sinned against you. I took advantage of your youth, your simplicity, your love for me, to induce you to contract a private marriage with me. Then my horrible pride got ahead of me, I quarreled with you and left you for twenty—may Heaven forgive me—twenty years. I can hardly expect that you will pardon me. How can you?"
She drew a little nearer to him when she saw how unhappy he looked.
"Ah, Ulric," she said, "your race are all alike faithless and debonair; even the little one is the same."
The words seemed to cost her violent effort; her face grew crimson.
He looked at her with brightening eyes.
"The little one—our child? Oh, Estelle, you have never told me anything of our child."
"You have never asked," she retorted.
"No, I am to blame. What dull, stupid apathy has come over me? What have I been doing or thinking about? My wife and child to drift through all these years. Well, from the depths of my heart I say Heaven pardon me, for I am a great sinner. Estelle, tell me something about our child."