"You must let me speak to-night—our last night before we part. It isn't generous of you not to listen."
The yellow dog, disturbed in his slumbers, shook himself, and regarding them with an air of humble sympathy turned and walked away discreetly into the shadow. The fisher folk on the jetty still sang their mournful chorus.
"Sit down again."
Septimus yielded. "But why give yourself pain?" he asked gently.
"To ease my heart. The knife does good. Yes, I know I've been worthless. But I'm not as bad as that. Don't you see how horrible the idea is to me? I must pay you back the money—and of course not come on you for any more. You've done too much for me already. It sometimes stuns me to think of it. It was only because I was in hell and mad—and grasped at the hand you held out to me. I suppose I've done you the biggest wrong a woman can do a man. Now I've come to my senses, I shudder at what I've done."
"Why? Why?" said Septimus, growing miserably unhappy.
"How can you ever marry, unless we go through the vulgarity of a collusive divorce?"
"My dear girl," said he, "what woman would ever marry a preposterous lunatic like me?"
"There's not a woman living who ought not to have gone down on her bended knees if she had married you."
"I should never have married," said he, laying his hand for a moment reassuringly on hers.