A long silence fell. Walter brooded, something of shame on his face from that confession. Then he came to Mrs. Ormonde's side, and took her hand.
'You are incapable,' he said gently, 'of conscious injustice. Had you said nothing of this to me, I should have gone to Thyrza to-morrow, and have asked her to marry me. She would not have refused; even granting that her passion has gone, you know she would not refuse me, and you know too that I could enrich her life abundantly. My passion, too, is over, but I know well that love for such a woman as she is would soon awake in me. I do not think I should do her any injustice if I asked her to be my wife: shall I be unjust to her if I withhold?'
Mrs. Ormonde did not answer at once. She retained his hand, and her own showed how strongly she felt.
'Walter, I think it would be unjust to her if you asked her—remembering her present mind. It is not only that your passion for her is dead; you think of another woman.'
'It is true. But I do not love her.'
She smiled.
'You are not ready to behave crazily about her; no. But I believe that you love her in a truer sense than you ever loved Thyrza. You love her mind.'
'Has not Thyrza a mind?'
'You do not know it, Walter. I doubt whether you would ever know it. Recall a letter you wrote to me, in which you dissected your own character. It was frank and in a very great measure true. You are not the husband for Thyrza.'
'You place Thyrza above Annabel Newthorpe?'