Augustine was gone. And now, before her, was the ugly breaking. But must it be so ugly? Opening her eyes, she looked at her husband as he stood before the fire, his wondering eyes upon her. Must it be ugly? Why could it not be quiet and even kind? Strangely there had gathered in her, during the long hours, the garnered strength of her life of discipline and submission. It had sustained her through the shudder that glanced back at yesterday--at the corruption that had come so near; it had given sanity to see with eyes of compassion the forsaken woman who had come with her courageous, revengeful story; it gave sanity now, as she looked over at her husband, to see him also, with those eyes of compassionate understanding; he was not blackened, to her vision, by the shadowing corruption, but, in his way, pitiful, too; all the worth of life lost to him. And it seemed swiftest, simplest, and kindest, as she looked over at him, to say:--"You see--Lady Elliston came this afternoon, and told me everything." Sir Hugh kept his face remarkably unmoved. He continued to gaze at his wife with an unabashed, unstartled steadiness. "I might have guessed that," he said after a short silence. "Confound her." Amabel made no reply. "So I suppose," Sir Hugh went on, "you feel you can't forgive me." She hesitated, not quite understanding. "You mean--for having married me--when you loved her?" "Well, yes; but more for not having, long ago, in all these years, found out that you were the woman that any man with eyes to see, any man not blinded and fatuous, ought to have been in love with from the beginning." Amabel flushed. Her vision was untroubled; but the shadow hovered. She was ashamed for him. "No"; she said, "I did not think of that. I don't know that I have anything to forgive you. It is Lady Elliston, I think, who must try and forgive you, if she can." Sir Hugh was again silent for a moment; then he laughed. "You dear innocent!--Well--I won't defend myself at her expense." "Don't," said Amabel, looking now away from him. Sir Hugh eyed her and seemed to weigh the meaning of her voice. He crossed the room suddenly and leaned over her:--"Amabel darling,--what must I do to atone? I'll be patient. Don't be cruel and punish me for too long a time." "Sit there--will you please." She pointed to the chair at the other side of the table. He hesitated, still leaning above her; then obeyed; folding his arms; frowning. "You don't understand," said Amabel. "I loved you for what you never were. I do not love you now. And I would never have loved you as you asked me to do yesterday." He gazed at her, trying to read the difficult riddle of a woman's perversity. "You were in love with me yesterday," he said at last. She answered nothing. "I'll make you love me again." "No: never," she answered, looking quietly at him. "What is there in you to love?" Sir Hugh flushed. "I say! You are hard on me!"