"There was none."
"There is always time!" She is silent for a moment, and then, with an increase of passion in her tone, repeats her question: "Why did you marry her?"
"You—to ask me that!" exclaims he fiercely.
"It was not like you," says she, interrupting him in a measure, as though unable to keep back the words, the accusations, that are rushing to her lips. "I have known you so long—so long. Ah! I thought I knew you. I believed you faithful. I believed you many things. But, at all events"—with a sad and desolate reproach—"I never believed you fond of money."
"Marian!" She has laid her hand upon his arm, and now he flings it from him. "That you should accuse me! Money! What was money to me in comparison with your love? But you—you——"
He does not go on: it is so hard to condemn her. He is looking at her in the tender light with eyes that seek to read her heart, and he is very pale. She can see that, in spite of the warm, pink glow of the lamps behind them.
"Well—and I?" questions she, with deep agitation.
How handsome he is! how lovable! Oh for the good sweet past she has so madly flung aside!
"You refused me," says he slowly, "you, on whom my soul was set."
"For your own good," in a stifled voice.