"Are you not my wife? Has not my love bound you to me by stronger ties than any church laws? Why should this former detested bond ruin both our lives?"
"A little while ago you spoke of yourself as an 'over-honorable' man. Is what you now propose honorable or right? Marmaduke, it is impossible. As our lives have shaped themselves, so must they be. I cannot live with you."
"Think of what the world will say. Phyllis, can you bear their cruel speeches? It is not altogether for my own sake I plead, though the very thought of losing you is more than I can bear. It is for you, yourself, I entreat. Remember what your position will be. Have pity upon yourself."
"No, no! I will not listen to you. I will not, Marmaduke."
He flings himself on his knees before me.
"Darling, darling, do not forsake me," he whispers despairingly.
"Let me go," I cry wildly. "Is this your love for me? Oh, the selfishness of it. Would you have me live with you as—-"
"Be silent!" exclaims he, in a terrible voice. A spasm of pain contracts his face. Slowly he regains his feet.
"You madden me," he goes on, in an altered tone. "I forget that you, who have never loved, cannot feel as I do. Phyllis, tell me the truth; have you no affection for me. Are you quite cold?"
"I am not!" I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatural apathy, and bursting into bitter tears, the first I have shed to-day. As the whole horrible truth comes home to me, I rise impulsively and fling myself into my husband's arms—for my husband he has been for six long months. "I do love you, 'Duke—'Duke; but, oh! what can I do? What words can I use to tell you all I feel? I am young, and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know; but yet there is something within me I dare not disobey—something that makes me know the life you propose would be a life of sin, one on which no blessing could fall. Help me, therefore, to do the right, and do not make my despair greater than it is."