The curtains of the room were wide apart. The sun flaunted itself upon the old carpet, the handsome old-fashioned furniture. Thorpe went straight to the windows, and drew the curtains together, then walked slowly to the bed. Nina lay with her eyes open, watching him intently. Her face was pallid and sunken; but she looked less unlike her old self. She took his hand and pressed it feebly. "I am sorry I spoke so roughly the other day," she said. "But I was not quite myself. I have touched nothing since; I couldn't, after seeing you. It is that that is killing me; but don't let it worry you. I am very glad." Thorpe sat down beside her and chafed her hands gently. They were cold. "It was a beautiful little baby," she said, abruptly. "And it looked so much like you that it was almost ridiculous." "I was a brute to have left you, whether you wished it or not. It is no excuse to say that the consequences never entered my head, I was half mad that morning; and after what you had told me, I think I was glad to get away for a time." "We both did what we believed to be best, and ruined--well, my life, and your best chance of happiness, perhaps. It is often so, I notice. Too much happiness is not a good thing for the world, I suppose. It is only the people of moderate desires and capacities that seem to get what they want. But it was a great pity; we could have been very happy. Did you care much?" He showed her his own soul then, naked and tormented,--as it had been from the hour he had received her letters upon his return from the West Indies until Time had done its work upon him,--and as it was now and must be for long months to come. Of the intervening years he gave no account; he had forgotten them. She listened with her head eagerly lifted, her vision piercing his. He made the story short. When he had finished, her head fell back. She gave a long sigh. Was it of content? She made no other comment. She was past conventions; her emotions were already dead. And she was at last in that stage of development wherein one accepts the facts of life with little or no personal application. "It didn't surprise me when you came in," she said, after a moment. "I felt that you would come--My life has been terrible, terrible! Do you realise that! Have they told you? No woman has ever fallen lower than I have done. I am sorry, for your sake; I can't repent in the ordinary way. I have an account to square with God, if I ever meet Him and He presumes to judge me. If you will forgive me, that is all that I care about." "I forgive you! Good God, I wonder you don't hate me!"