"All this," he says—his voice is low and harsh, because of the agony of the moment—"all this comes——"
He grows silent. He cannot say it. She can.
"Too late?"
The words fall like a knell, yet there is a question in them, and one that must be answered.
"Too late!" repeats he. He could have cursed himself, yet it had to be done. He frees himself from her and stands back. "Why do you compel me to say such things?" cries he violently.
But she does not hear him. She is looking into the distant corner of the room as though—as one might suppose, seeing her earnest gaze—she can there see something. Her dead life's hope, perhaps, lying in its shroud. And perhaps, too, the sight is too much for her, for after a moment or two she raises her hands to her eyes, and clasps them there.
A sound breaks from her. In all his after life Rylton never forgets it.
"Oh!" says she, and that is all—but it sounds like a last breath—a final moan—an end.
Then all at once it is over. Whatever she has felt is done with for the present. She takes down her hands, and looks round at him deliberately. Her face is as the face of one dead, but her voice is clear and cold and cutting as an east wind.
"It is this, then," says she, "that all is at an end between us. You have tired of me. I have heard that men do tire. Now I know it. You wish me dead, perhaps."