“Do you not think, Ouida, that you and I have fairly tried the world?”
“Yes,” said she, firmly, “and surely we have reached the end.”
“Think you self-destruction is ever justified?”
“Have you abandoned hope so completely,” she said, “that you let such dark visions come into your mind?”
“I am full of despair tonight,” said Nugent, gloomily. “I see naught before me save the impregnable wall of fate. I can neither break through its thickness, nor scale its height.”
“True,” said Ouida, dreamily, “our lives have utterly failed, and if we quietly sought oblivion, the world would wag its tongue for one brief hour, then would speedily forget that we ever lived.”
Horatio rose to his feet, and said with impressive solemnity:
“I have thought that when two, through their love, pure in itself, had gained but grief and tears, when they had reached that point when starvation, both of body and soul, confronted them like a hideous spectre; when their pride had been stung by pity; when love views love with more than mortal agony, affording no hope; Oh, Ouida, beloved, I have thought ’twere best to end it all with one bold stroke, and solve the mystery of the fate beyond the stars!”
“Your magnetic eloquence,” said the woman, “moves me beyond expression. We cannot longer live together. Your agony each day kills me a million times. Mine utterly unnerves you. Whatever course you deem best I’ll share without a sob or tear.”