"But I don't feel that I can marry her," he said, with a groan. "Dick and her!—it sticks in my throat,—the very thought seems to choke me. I don't feel that I could marry her, even if she would still have me. She said I must forget her, and put her out of my life. She feels everything is over between us. It's all very well," savagely, "to talk of forgetting anyone—like Annette," and he beat his foot against the floor.
Janey looked at him in a great compassion. "He will come back to me," she said to herself, "not for a long time, but he will come back. Broken and disillusioned and aged, and with only a bit of a heart to give me. He will never care much about me, but I shall be all he has left in the world. And I will take him, whatever he is."
She put out her hand for her work and busied herself with it, knowing instinctively that the occupation of her hands and eyes upon it would fret him less than if she sat idle and looked at him. She had nothing to learn about how to deal with Roger.
She worked for some time in silence, and hope dead and buried rose out of his deep grave in her heart, and came towards her once more. Was it indeed hope that stirred in its grave, this pallid figure with the shroud still enfolding it, or was it but its ghost? She knew not.
At last Roger raised a tortured face out of his hands.
"Of course, she says she is innocent," he said, looking hopelessly at Janey.
Janey started violently. Her work fell from her hands.
"Annette—says—she—is—innocent," she repeated after him, a flame of colour rushing to her face.
"Yes. Mary Deane said the same. They always say it."