“Annie!” he said apathetically. “It is you, is it?”
With mechanical courtesy, he moved forward feebly and offered her a chair; but she took his hand and led him very gently to the hard little sofa, and made him sit down beside her there. She thought the feeling which had evidently overmastered him must be remorse for his conduct toward her and her husband, and she tried to think of the sweetest words she could to soothe his distress.
“It makes me very unhappy to see how deeply you are suffering,” said she. “If I had known you would feel it so much, I would have come before.”
He played idly with his crutch, not in the least moved by her words.
“It would have made no difference,” said he, in a dull, cold tone.
“Oh, but I think it would! I would not have let you think so much about it!”
“How could you help that?” said he, turning upon her his lusterless eyes. “I tell you I was not rich enough, and she would have thrown me over just the same!”
Annie started. He was thinking no more of the wrong he had done her than if it had been a deed of a hundred years back. But she was not angry. Her pity rose higher than ever for this unhappy man, who had sacrificed all, even to his honesty, for the sake of a woman who did not care a straw for him now that she had got from him all he had to give.
“Stephen, I am so very, very sorry for you,” said she, in a quivering voice.
“Are you?” said he, waking for an instant into something more like life. “And yet—you have no reason to be.”