Harding paused a minute, and then went on in a hard, constrained voice, like one who repeats a disagreeable lesson.
"I have thought it right to see you—now, for the last time—and say I think it best—and right—that we should part."
Jane turned very pale, and the old grave look of hopeless pain came over her face. But she answered with infinite softness and humility:
"It is right—you know I thought so from the first. You should not marry a—a convict's daughter."
"It is not because you are a convict's daughter."
"The reason is sufficient."
"I repel it," he cried vehemently—"I will have none of it—I told you so before—I repeat it now. Listen," and he crossed the room swiftly and closed both doors.
"I loved you for yourself—dearly—dearly. What did it matter to me—what fault was it of yours—what other people did, or what or where they were? In this grand, new country, men—some men, at least—have grown high enough and strong enough to shake off such paltry prejudices as those. To me they are as nothing."
"You led me to think so," Jane said gently.
"Why should I care for your being a ballet-dancer—or for the other thing, when you had never disgraced yourself? But now it is different."