"You have thought neither of God nor me," she answered bitterly.
"Of you," he cried—"always of you, Peggy!"
She shook her head. "No," she said. "Thought of me would have made you think of all I have had to suffer. Did you think of me when you planned to go to Paris? When did you ever think of me—my being—my life—my soul? What excuse can you offer?"
His arms fell to his side, his face was pale and passionate. "Only my love," he answered—"my fierce, burning love. The mad desire to have you for my own. I have thought of nothing else since I met you."
She bent forward and threw out her arm. The little ivory-white hand was palm upwards, and it shook in dreadful accusation.
"Thought of me?" she cried. "Was it thought of me that drove me under the lash of that man's scourge to-day? Was it thought of me that placed me like a criminal in that court to-day? How could you have thought of me and not foreseen the shame, the misery, and the torture to which I have been subjected? Where was your love for me when you were conscious of the mass of evidence these creatures were piling up against me? Did your love of me foresee newsboys rushing about the streets with placards blazing out like letters of fire, 'Mrs. Admaston on the Rack'? Rack, Colling!"
He shook his head with a terrible gesture of sadness.
"No. I did not foresee it," he said, "because you made me believe that you were in earnest—that you loved me. If you had loved me you wouldn't have cared."
"I liked you, Colling, I liked you," she said; and now all the fire had gone from her voice.
"Liked me! Was it mere liking that made you take all those risks? You knew my intention. I told you again and again I wanted him to divorce you."