For some time after he had gone she remained silent, Harding waiting for her to speak. Raising her head, she looked him steadily in the face.
"I suppose I ought to call you Mr. Harding now," she began, "but I can't, Fred, I can't."
"As you wish," he said.
There came another silence, the woman unable to trust herself to continue, the man fearing to begin.
"How life mocks one," she said, half to herself. "Surely it is punishment enough that I should have to turn to you in my distress, humiliating enough even to satisfy your desire for retribution. I do not blame you, Fred. I deserve it all. I treated you vilely."
"Is there any necessity to refer to that now?" he asked. "I told you the curtain had been rung down for ever upon that. I have no wish either to punish or humiliate you. I don't think that I have given you reason to believe that I do. If you think there has been any reason, I can only say you are mistaken."
She started impulsively to her feet and stood in front of him, holding her hands to him.
"Fred, I must say it. I cannot bear this longer. It may make you hate me—detest and despise me, but I must say it. If you had only shown resentment or anger or spite for the way in which I treated you, it would not have been so hard to bear. Oh, don't you see? Don't you understand? Oh, isn't there one scrap of pity left in you for me? I was trapped into marriage, Fred. I never loved him, never, never! He—oh, have some pity on me, Fred, some pity."
She sank into a chair and buried her face on her arms on the table as she gave way to a storm of weeping.
To the man it was agony to see her, anguish to hear her, more bitter after the confession she had made and while the grip of suspicion still held him. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stepped to her side and laid his hand gently upon her head.