"Since you first knew me?" she asked, in a low voice.
"No! Since you came to live here. I was free before."
It was the part of his confession which cost him most to utter, and the hearing of it chilled Ida's heart. Whilst she had been living through her bitterest shame and misery, he had given his love to another woman, forgetful of her. For the first time, weakness overcame her.
"I thought you loved me," she sobbed, bowing her head.
"I did—and I do. I can't understand myself, and it would be worse than vain to try to show you how it came about. I have brought a curse upon my life, and worse than my own despair is your misery."
"Is she a good woman you are going to marry?" Ida asked simply and kindly.
"Only less noble than yourself."
"And she loves you—no, she cannot love as I do—but she loves you worthily and with all her soul?"
"Worthily and with all her soul—the greater my despair."
"Then I dare not think of her one unkind thought. We must remember her, and be strong for her sake. You will leave London and forget me soon,—yes, yes, you will try to forget me. You owe it to her; it is your duty."