"It is much better to say it at once," he said, with the supernaturally calm indifference which sometimes comes upon very sensitive people when they are irritated beyond endurance. "I did love you, or I should not have married you. But I do not love you any longer. I am sorry. I wish I did."
"And you dare to tell me so!" she cried, turning upon him suddenly.
A moment later she was leaning forward, covering her face with her hands, and speaking through them.
"You have the heart to tell me so, after all I have been to you—the devotion of years, the tenderness, the love no man ever had of any woman! Oh, God! It is too much!"
"It is said now. It is of no use to go back to a lie," observed Reanda, with an indifference that would have seemed diabolical even to himself, had he believed her outbreak to be quite genuine. "Of what use would it be to pretend again?"
"You admit that you have only pretended to love me?" She raised her flushed face and gleaming eyes.
"Of late—if you call it a pretence—"
"Oh, not that—not that! I have seen it—but at first. You did love me. Say that, at least."
"Certainly. Why should I have married you?"
"Yes—why? In spite of her, too—it is not to be believed."