He hesitated before replying.
"No," he answered, stonily, after the pause. "I won't call it a merit. I wish you would leave me—something."
That was very hard.
"It is true," she returned, "that I do not—leave you very much."
The words cost her such an effort that there were breaks between them.
"No," he said, "not much."
There was something almost dogged in his manner. He could not bear a great deal more, and his consciousness of this truth forced him to brace himself to outward hardness.
"I don't ask very much," he said. "I only ask you to spare yourself and your children. I only ask you to keep out of danger. It is yourself I ask you to think of, not me. Treat me as you like, but don't—don't be cruel to yourself. I am afraid it does not do for a woman—even a woman as cool as you are—to trifle with herself and her name. I have heard it said so, and I could not remain silent after hearing what I did to-night."
He turned as if to move away.