He had not stirred in his chair where he sat bowed and dejected. But she drew back, flinching.
"I see," he said. "Then you do not forgive me."
"If you had come to me, and told me of your temptation—of your sin—three years ago, I would have forgiven you then. I would have taken you back. I cannot now. Not willingly, not with the feeling that I ought to have."
She spoke humbly, gently, as if aware that she was giving him pain. Her face was averted. He said nothing; and she turned and faced him.
"Of course you can compel me," she said. "You can compel me to anything."
"I have never compelled you, as you know."
"I know. I know you have been good in that way."
"Good? Is that your only notion of goodness?"
"Good to me, Walter. Yes. You were very good. I do not say that I will not go back to you; but if I do, you must understand plainly, that it will be for one reason only. Because I desire to save you from yourself. To save some other woman, perhaps—"
"You can let the other woman take care of herself. As for me, I appreciate your generosity, but I decline to be saved on those terms. I'm fastidious about a few things, and that's one of them. What you are trying to tell me is that you do not care for me."