“Yes,” said Honora, “and you can never realize how tired, unless you knew him as I did. When love dies, it turns into hate.”
He rose, and walked to the other end of the room, and turned.
“Could you be induced,” he said, “for the sake of your aunt and uncle, if not for your own, to consider a legal separation?”
For an instant she stared at him hopelessly, and then she buried her face in her hands.
“No,” she cried. “No, I couldn't. You don't know what you ask.”
He went to her, and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“I think I do,” he said.
There was a moment's tense silence, and then she got to her feet and looked at him proudly.
“Yes,” she cried, “it is true. And I am not ashamed of it. I have discovered what love is, and what life is, and I am going to take them while I can.”
She saw the blood slowly leave his face, and his hands tighten. It was not until then that she guessed at the depth of his wound, and knew that it was unhealed. For him had been reserved this supreme irony, that he should come here to plead for her husband and learn from her own lips that she loved another man. She was suddenly filled with awe, though he turned away from her that she might not see his face: And she sought in vain for words. She touched his hand, fearfully, and now it was he who trembled.