"It is nothing to me whether you have thought or not. I dare say you have been ashamed when you remembered your disgrace—what of it?"
"Yes," he said, "I have been ashamed. You were always too good for me; I ought never to have had anything to do with a woman like you."
She had not risen; she was still in the position in which he had surprised her; and she was sensible now of a dull pain at the unexpectedness of his conclusion.
"Why have you followed me?" she said coldly. "What for?"
"What for? I didn't know you were in the town, I hadn't an idea—and I saw you suddenly. I wanted to speak to you."
"What is it you want to say?"
"Mary!"
"Yes; what do you want to say? I'm not your friend; I'm not your acquaintance: what have you got to speak to me about?"
"I meant," he stammered—"I wanted to ask you if it was possible that—that you could ever forgive the way I behaved to you."
"Is that all?" she asked in a hard voice.