"You, at least, can find no flaw in it," says he suddenly.
"No? Was it an honourable man who married that girl for her money, loving me all the time? You," passionately, "you did love me then?"
There is question in her tone.
"The dishonour was to her, not to you," returns he, his eyes bent on the ground.
"Oh, forget her! What has she got to do with us?" cries she, with a sudden burst of angry misery, stung by the fact that he had given no answer to that last question of hers. "You loved me once. You loved me. Oh, Maurice," smiting her hands together, "you cannot have forgotten that! You cannot. Why should I remember if you forget? Each kiss of yours, each word, is graven on my soul! When I am dead, perhaps I shall forget, but not till then; and you—you, too—you must remember!"
"I remember!"
He is looking white and haggard.
"Ah!"
There is a quick triumphant note in her voice.
"But what?" he goes on quickly. "What have I to remember about you? That I prayed you on my knees day after day to give yourself to me. To risk the chances of poverty, to marry me—and," slowly, "I remember, too, your answer. It was always 'No'. You loved me, you said, but you would wait. Poverty frightened you. I would have given my life for you, you would not give even your comfort for me. Even when my engagement with—with——"