"Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care! It is a last moment! Do you dare to tell me that still? Supposing your story to be true, and mine—that woman's—false, how would it be between us then?"
"As it was in the first good old time when we were married."
"You, could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, supposing——"
"Everything—all."
"Ah!" This sound seems crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a dry sob breaks from her.
"What is it?" asks he, quickly.
"Oh, that I could—that I dared—believe," says she.
"You would have proofs," says he, coldly, resigning her hand. "My word is not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy; your love is not strong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poor a thing as that? However, you shall have them."
"What?" asks she, raising her head.
"The proofs you desire," responds he, icily. "That woman—your friend—the immaculate one—died the the day before yesterday. What? You never heard? And you and she——"