"Then by all means don't marry one," retorts Sir Francis. "But, joking apart, Jean, you are not serious? You are not going to throw me off in this fashion?"
"I said nothing about 'throwing off.' I only said it behoved me to be careful—doubly careful; and if you come to see me now, you must come with—your wife."
"My wife!" He stares at her stupidly.
"Certainly. As a widow I cannot receive constant visits from married men unaccompanied by their wives. It would never do. I cannot suffer you to humiliate me; I care too much for—myself!"
"I wish to heaven I could understand you," mutters Sir Francis. "Well, at all events, for a year, you can't carry out your threat."
She has him in such complete subjugation that he does not bluster or insist as with a weak-minded woman he would have done. Lady Jean has always ruled him with a strong hand, as a bad woman will often rule a man who yet owes her no fidelity, and has for her no respect.
"I may never carry it out," she says, with a sudden softening of her voice. "Perhaps, after all, I—love—you too well, though you don't believe it. But, as I said before, of what use—of what use?"
His brow clears, his anger melts. "If I could only believe you!" he says.
"Ah!" she answers, with humility, "if I had loved myself better than you, I, too, might have had your respect. But I was not wise enough to be selfish."
"For your love I would forfeit any other consideration!" he cries impetuously. "You know that well enough. Whatever you desire, I will do it; only don't forsake me."