"Oh! I'm glad"—smiting her hands together—"by the early train?"
"The earliest!"
Hescott's soul seems dying within him. All at once the truth is clear to him, or, at least, half of it. She may not love her husband, but, beyond all question, love for him—Hescott—has never entered into her mind.
"And a good thing too!" says Tita wrathfully. "I hope I shall never see you here again. I could never bear to look at you after this!" She is standing trembling with agitation before him, like one full-filled with wrath. "To-day—I shall not forget that. To-day—and that story"—she stops as if choking—"what did you mean by telling that story?" demands she, almost violently. "Everyone there knew what you meant. It dragged me down to the ground. I hated you for it! You invented it. You know you did, just to humiliate him! You think Maurice hates me, but he doesn't. It is a lie!" She pauses, her lovely eyes aflame. "It is a lie!" she repeats passionately.
"If so——" begins Hescott, but in so low a tone, and so dead, that she scarcely heeds it.
"And to call me an angel before them all. Ah! I could read through you. So could everyone. It was an insult! I won't be called an angel. I am just what Maurice is, and no more. I wonder Maurice didn't kill you—and he would, only you were his guest. So would I—only——"
She breaks off. The tears are running down her cheeks. She makes a little swift turn of her body towards him.
"Oh, Tom! and I did so believe in you!"
There is a short silence fraught with misery for one soul, at all events.
"Believe in me still," says Tom Hescott, in a queer, low tone. "Believe in me now—and for ever—to"—with passionate fondness—"the last moment of your life." He draws his breath sharply. "And now good-bye."