He came towards her. She drew back; but her hand remained on the chair. He touched the plain gold ring on her finger, and said:
“You still wear it. To think of that—so loyal for a woman! How she remembers, holy Mother!... But shall I not kiss you, yes, just once after eight years—my wife?”
She breathed hard and drew back against the wall, dazed and frightened, and said:
“No, no, do not come near me; do not speak to me—ah, please, stand back, for a moment—please!”
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and continued, with mock tenderness:
“To think that things come round so! And here you have a home. But that is good. I am tired of much travel and life all alone. The prodigal goes not to the home, the home comes to the prodigal.” He stretched up his arms as if with a feeling of content.
“Do you—do you not know,” she said, “that—that—”
He interrupted her:
“Do I not know, Lucy, that this is your home? Yes. But is it not all the same? I gave you a home ten years ago—to think, ten years ago! We quarrelled one night, and I left you. Next morning my boat was found below the White Cascade—yes, but that was so stale a trick! It was not worthy of Francois Rives. He would do it so much better now; but he was young then; just a boy, and foolish. Well, sit down, Lucy, it is a long story, and you have much to tell, how much—who knows?” She came slowly forward and said with a painful effort:
“You did a great wrong, Francois. You have killed me.