She made a quick gesture of protest.
"Would a good woman have left the man who saved her life lying ill in a strange land while she escaped with her miserable freedom?"
He answered her without hesitation, as he had long ago answered himself.
"No doubt the need was great."
She turned away from him and sat down, bowing her head upon her hand.
"It was," she said, her voice very low. "I was nearly mad with trouble. You had pity then—without knowing. Have you—no pity—now?"
The appeal went out into silence. Carey neither spoke nor moved. His face was like a stone mask—the face of a strong man in torture.
After a pause of seconds she spoke again, her face hidden from him.
"The first Mrs. Coningsby is dead," she said. "Let it be so! Nothing will ever bring her back. Geoffrey Coningsby is free to marry—whom he will."
The words were scarcely more than a whisper, but they reached and pierced him to the heart. He drew a step nearer to her, and spoke with sudden vehemence.