"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?"
"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have."
"Then why—why——"
She turned on him, nearly angry.
"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either, have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my mind what you—one of the—the stablemen—had taken of me, Sylvia Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you did, and I——Everything went to pieces——And it had to be last night, after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it."
"I don't quite understand, Sylvia."
She smiled a little through her tears.
"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now—please."
"When will I see you again?" he asked.
"This way? Never."