"Tell me," he said again, and quietly though he spoke there was in his tone a certain mastery that had never asserted itself in the old days; "What is it? Why have you come to me like this?"
"I—haven't come to stay, Will," she said, her voice so low that it was barely audible.
His face changed. He looked suddenly dogged. "After twenty months!" he said.
She bent her head. "I know. It's half a lifetime—more. You have learnt to do without me by this. At least—I hope you have—for your own sake."
He made no comment on the words; perhaps he did not hear them. After a brief silence she heard his voice above her bowed head. "Something is wrong. You'll tell me presently, won't you? But—really you needn't be afraid."
Something in the words—was it a hint of tenderness?—renewed her failing strength. She commanded herself and raised her head. She scarcely recognised in the steady, square-chinned man before her the impulsive, round-faced boy she had left. There was something unfathomable about him, a hint of greatness that affected her strangely.
"Yes," she said. "Something is wrong. It is what I am here for—what I have come to tell you. And when it is over, I'm going away—I'm going away—out of your life—for ever, this time."
His jaw hardened, but he said nothing whatever. He stood waiting for her to continue.
She rose slowly to her feet though she was scarcely capable of standing. She had come to the last ounce of her strength, but she spent it bravely.
"Will," she said, and though her voice shook uncontrollably every word was clear, "I hardly know how to say it. You have always trusted me, always been true to me. I think—once—you almost worshipped me. But you'll never worship me any more, because—because—I am unworthy of you. Do you understand? I was held back from the final wickedness, or—or I shouldn't be here now. But the sin was there in my heart. Heaven help me, it is there still. There! I have told you. It—was your right. I don't ask for mercy or forgiveness. Only punish me—punish me—and then—let me—go!"