"Poor Mary!"
Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world was pity. Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy. She sat up, a shadow among the shadows.
"I mustn't stay, Mills," Dulcie was declaring.
"Why not?"
"I feel like a—thief—"
"Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie. We should have taken it years ago. Loving you I should never have married Mary."
"I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised."
"But now you see it differently, Dulcie?"
"Perhaps."
Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie's chair, kissing her hands. The fire lighted them. It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in the blackness of the pit.