“Not lovers,” said Anne, finishing the sentence for her in an even voice. “Well, he came. And by that time I’d come to my senses, and to all this awful misery. He’s very kind,” she went on with a sort of surprise, as a child might speak of the unexpected clemency of some grown-up person. “He said he didn’t want to make me unhappy, and if I pleased it should all be at an end, and he would go away. So he went. But Harry’s coming to-morrow, and I daren’t meet him. I daren’t look at him. It’s awful--_awful_! I would kill myself,--but I daren’t do that either.” She rose from her knees, and sank back in her chair, exhausted and shaking; her eyes fixed on Anne were the eyes of a little hunted animal. All the terror of the gulf she had put between herself and respectable women, all the horror of feeling herself _déclassée_ outside the pale of moral virtue, filled her conventional little soul. It outweighed the sense of her personal disloyalty; it was greater than her sense of wanton treachery towards her husband. She was no longer a respectable woman, and in that fact lay the sting. Anne leant towards her. “You haven’t told Harry?” She shook her head. “Then don’t.” Madge stared at her incredulously. “But--but look at me!” she stammered. “He’ll see. He’d guess, even if I don’t tell him. I can’t stop crying. I can’t--help it.” While she spoke the tears were running down her cheeks. “Yes, you can. You can pull yourself together. He expects to find you ill, but you can meet him with a bright face--for his sake.” “For his sake?” repeated Madge. “Yes. Think of him a little, my dear, and forget yourself.” “You mean he would never forgive me? Never take me back?” “On the contrary, I know he would. He loves you. You would never hear a word of reproach from his lips. Your husband is a fine man, Madge, and a generous one--and a gentleman.” “Yes, he is! He is!” she returned eagerly. “He _would_ forgive me, and I ought to tell him. I should never have a happy moment if I didn’t. My life would be spoilt.” “And what about his?” asked Anne quietly. Madge gazed at her. “You mean he--he wouldn’t forget it?” Anne answered with a curious smile. “You don’t understand much about men, my little Madge,” she said. “When they love, their instinct of possession is stronger than anything you can guess. It’s bound up with a thousand forces from primitive barbarous times. It may be unreasonable and savage, but it’s there. A generous man forgives, and even tries to understand. But the wound remains, and it rankles in spite of him. Have you the right to inflict such a wound? The wrong is yours. _You_ should be the only one to suffer.” “But I _shall_ suffer,” broke in Madge. “And much more, if I feel I’m deceiving him.” “Then accept the extra suffering, and bear it alone,” returned Anne quickly. “One pays for everything, Madge. Is it fair to call upon some one else to share the expenses?” There was silence for a moment.