"When first I came here."
"And since then you have written to break it off?" he asks, while a tone of joyful hope vibrates in his deep voice.
"No, I have not," she answers, in a frightened whisper.
St. John's face gathers blackness. "I am to understand, then," he resumes, in a constrained voice, out of which the man's strong will keeps the pent passion from bursting forth, "that you belonged to him at the time when I kept you out of bed one night to listen to an interesting chapter in my own autobiography?"
"Yes."
"And when, in reply to my inquiries, you denied having any connection beyond common acquaintance with—with him?"
"Yes."
"And when you were good enough to overlook all trifling obstacles, and to consent to marry me?"
"Yes."
The little catechism ended, the last cobweb of doubt torn away, they stand dumb. Esther's guilty head sinks down on her breast as a flower's head sinks overladen with rain. Suddenly she looks up and stretches out her arms. "Speak to me!" she says, huskily. "Curse me! strike me! call me some bad name—only speak!"