"And you saw her lying dead?" I say, irrelevantly.
"Yes. Have I not told you so already? Why name her to me?"
"Poor soul! How strange she must have looked," I say, dreamily, "lying there with those restless, burning eyes forever closed—so cold, so white, so still. And you looked down upon her. You were glad to see her there," with a shudder. "You rejoiced that death had stepped in to conquer her and free you of a chain that dragged. It is a dreadful picture."
"A very natural one, I think. Glad? Yes I was glad I was more than that: I was deeply thankful to see her there, powerless to work her wicked will or pollute the world again. I think—I hope I forgave her; but I was glad to see her dead."
There is a pause. Weary of standing, I sink into a chair. I push back my hair from my forehead, which has begun to throb a good deal, and then let my hands fall listlessly into my lap.
Kneeling down besides me, he takes one of them gently and strokes it. While he does so, I examine him critically. He has grown more like himself by this time, and but for the hollows in his cheeks, and that his moustache is somewhat darker and longer, I see no great alteration. Verily he has emerged from the fight unscathed, and triumphant in comparison with me.
"Tell me your real objection to my proposal," he says, softly.
"Does my disinclination to be re-married so much surprise you?" I ask, slowly and gravely. "Until I saw you I was a light-hearted child—I feel that now by force of contrast, though often then I fancied myself ill used; I did not know the meaning of real pain, of bitter enduring shame—that crudest of all heart-aches. You enlighten me."
"Phyllis—my love—spare me!"
"Here, in this quiet spot, I am at peace. My life is going from me slowly: I have little strength left; do not urge me against my will to enter again into the turmoil and troubles of everyday existence."