"I think Mrs. Barclay would speak the truth," he said meditatively.
"She is shameless," Anne retorted with a flash of scorn; "but, at least, now I know that Tristram is innocent where she is concerned. It is for that I am so thankful."
Owen Meredith drew himself up from his bowed attitude. There was something weary and apathetic in his bearing which was new to her. She felt, with a stab of pain, that he was very ill.
"Anne—don't you love your husband?" he asked.
The feverish blush in her cheeks deepened. But his eyes were grave, even to severity, and admitted no offence.
"Why, I must love him—he is my husband."
His twisted mouth was bitter.
"The one thing doesn't always imply the other, Anne. Men and women are frail. They can't always keep the terrible oaths God makes them swear."
"They can do their duty," she interrupted, "as I shall do mine."
"Duty isn't love," he said.