"I should think of you exactly as I do now," he said, resolutely—"If you were to kill yourself I should not pity you in the least! I should say that though you were a bit of a clever woman, you were much more of a fool! So you would gain nothing that way! You see, I'm sane and sensible—you are not. You are excited and hysterical—and don't know what you are talking about. Yes, child!—that's the fact!" He patted the hands he held consolingly, and then let them go. "I wish you'd get up from the floor and be reasonable! The position is quite simple and clear. We've had an ideal time of it together—but isn't it Shakespeare who says 'These violent delights have violent ends'? My work calls me to Algiers—yours keeps you in London—therefore we must part—but we shall meet again—some day—I hope…"
She slowly rose to her feet,—her sobbing ceased.
"Then—you never loved me?" she said—"It was all a lie?"
"I never lie," he answered, coldly—"I loved you—for the time being.
You amused me."
"And for your 'amusement' you have ruined me?"
"Ruined you?" He turned upon her in indignant protest—"You must be mad! You have been as safe with me as in the arms of your mother—"
At this she laughed,—a shrill little laugh with tears submerging it.
"You may laugh, but it is true!" he went on, in a righteously aggrieved tone—"I have done you no harm,—on the contrary, you have to thank me for a great deal of happiness—"
She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.
"Oh, yes, I have to thank you!" she said, and her voice now vibrated with intense and passionate sorrow—"I have to thank you for so much—for so very much indeed! You have been so kind and good! Yes! And you have never thought of yourself or your own pleasure at all—but only of me! And I have been as safe with you as in my mother's arms, … yes!—you have been quite as careful of me as she was!" And a wan smile flitted over her agonised face—"All this I have to thank you for!—but you have ruined me just the same—not my body, but my soul!"