"No. I mean—to you."
He turned away. "I understand," he said. "So it came to that?"
"Yes. It came to that. I've been here three hours; and up to the last hour, I was not sure whether I would not pack the rest of my things and go away. I had written a letter to you. There it is, under your arm."
"Am I to read it?"
"Yes."
He turned his back on her, and read the letter.
"I see. You say here you want a separation. If you want it you shall have it. But hadn't you better hear what I have to say, first?"
"I've come back for that. What have you to say?"
He bowed his head upon his breast.
"Not very much, I'm afraid. Except that I'm sorry—and ashamed of myself—and—I ask your forgiveness. What more can I say?"