"Yes—I love him. The more fool I."
The words did not grate on him, as they would have jarred on her husband's ear. The myth he had imagined made perfections of the woman's faults.
"It is a pity," he said, resting his forehead in his hand. "It is a deadly pity."
Then she turned at last and saw his attitude.
"You see," she said. "There is nothing to be done. Is there? You know my story now. I have married a man I worship, and he does not care for me. Take it and twist it as you may, it comes to that and nothing else. You can pity me, but you cannot help me. I must bear it as well as I can, and as long as I must. It will end some day—or I will make it end."
"For God's sake do not talk like that!"
"How should I talk? What should I say? Is it of any use to speak to him? Do you think I have not begged him, implored him, besought him, almost on my knees, to give up that work and do other things?"
Griggs looked straight into her eyes a moment and then almost understood what she meant.
"You mean that he—that when he is painting there—" He hesitated.
"Of course. All day long. All the bitter live-long day! They sit there together on pretence of talking about it. You know—you can guess at least—it is the old, old story, and I have to suffer for it. She could not marry him—because she is a princess and he an artist—good enough for me—God knows, I love him! Too good for her, ten thousand times too good! But yet not good enough for her to marry! He needed a wife, and she brought us together, and I suppose he told her that I should do very well for the purpose. I was a good subject. I fell in love with him—that was what they wanted. A wife for her favourite! O God! When I think of it—"