She preceded him into the study on the left of the upper hall—the study that had been his, and was now Richard's. He, following, closed the door, advanced toward her with lowering brow and angry eyes.
"It's very imprudent to close the door," said she, calmly returning his gaze. "Nanny is at work across the hall."
"Did you break your promise to me that night?" he demanded.
"I'll answer no question—not even from you, Basil—when it's in that tone."
"First you want me to open the door, so that I can't speak out," sneered he. "Now you evade.... You admit your degradation. I knew why you were keeping away from me."
"That was not my reason," she stammered, with lowered head.
"You lie! You are doubly false. You have no shame. Now I understand why you said those bold things—why you acted so free—as no innocent woman could. You—expert!"
Her eyes were milky like a tortured sea; her face became ghastly; she trembled so that she had to steady herself at the back of a chair. "Basil!" she exclaimed. "No, it's not you. What we've suffered since he came has driven you mad. It has almost crazed me."
"Answer me!" he commanded fiercely. "Did you or did you not break your promise to me?"
Suddenly she drew herself up, and with the sad dignity of guilt that has been expiated she said: "I ask you to pity me." And she stood there, pale and haggard, a statue of wretchedness.