"I have been a bad husband to you," he said. And the life had gone out of even his voice.
"Oh! No! No! you have been the best, the kindest and most indulgent of husbands."
"I have been worse than a bad husband," he went on in the same monotonous voice. "I have been a failure. I never tried to understand you. I didn't want to understand what might interfere with my own selfish life. You have a mind and I ordered you to feed it husks. You asked me for the companionship that was your right and I told you to go and amuse yourself as best you could. I fooled myself with the excuse that you were perfect as you were, but the bald truth was that I liked the society of men better, and hated any form of mental exertion unconnected with my profession. I plucked the rarest flower a good-for-nothing man ever found and I didn't even remember to give it fresh water. It is a wonder you didn't wilt before you did. You were wilting—dying mentally—when Masters came along. You found in him all that I had denied you. And now I have the punishment I deserve. You no longer love me. You love him."
"Oh—Oh—" Madeleine twisted her hands in her lap and stared at them. "You—you—cannot help being what you are. I long since ceased to find fault with you—"
"Yes, when you ceased to love me! When you found that we were hopelessly mismated. When you gave up."
"I—I'm very fond of you still. How could I help it when you are so good to me?"
"I have no doubt of your friendship—or of your fidelity. But you love
Masters. Can you deny it?"
"No."
"Are you preparing to elope with him?"
"Oh! No! No! How could you dream of such a thing?"