"You owe me a little happiness and peace, Tom, after all these years."
"Oh, I'll go away all right. This is the last time you'll ever see me."
"It isn't that that I ask. There was a time when we were happy, you and I. I do not forget the old days, before you—I mean, when we were working together, you and I, to get control of the circus. Not that I liked the life—God knows I did not! but that we were striving for big, good things. I—"
"You got your money back," he broke in weakly. "That's more than I did."
"What had I ever done to you, Tom, that you should sell me as if I were a concubine to—"
"Didn't I tell you it was whiskey—and cards?" he cried fiercely.
"True. You did tell me that," she admitted, closing her eyes. He looked at the lowered lids for a moment and then swore softly to himself—not an oath of anger but of despair. She opened her eyes and caught the fleeting look of shame and remorse. "Ah," she cried, "you have a heart, after all. I saw it then. Tom, you did love me, years ago—you were fine and strong and true. You were yourself. You have changed, but I can still see something of the strong, manly Tom Braddock I loved in those wonderful days."
He was scowling again, but she had seen through the mask. She went on eagerly: "You are obsessed by this idea of vengeance. What can it mean to you, after all is said and done? You say you are going to end your own life, as well. You will escape the consequences, as any coward would, and you are not a coward. Who stays behind to suffer all the pain and anguish? Not you! Oh, no! I am the one—as if you had not already done enough. Christine and I! We—"
"I won't listen to you!" he cried, his breast heaving.
"You are listening! You can't help it. Come! You must sit down here beside me. This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life."