She named her hotel in her French English, and the sound of it penetrated him with remorseful pity. It was for him, and of his doing, that she was in an alien land and an outcast! “This house is wretched for you,” said he: “and you must be hungry. Let me...” “I cannot eat. I will ask you”: she paused, drawing on her energies, and keeping down the throbs of her heart: “this: do you love me?” “I love you with all my heart and soul.” “As in Normandy?” “Yes.” “In Venice?” “As from the first, Renée! That I can swear.” “Oaths are foolish. I meant to ask you—my friend, there is no question in my mind of any other woman: I see you love me: I am so used to consider myself the vain and cowardly creature, and you the boldest and faithfullest of men, that I could not abandon the habit if I would: I started confiding in you, sure that I should come to land. But I have to ask you: to me you are truth: I have no claim on my lover for anything but the answer to this:—Am I a burden to you?” His brows flew up in furrows. He drew a heavy breath, for never had he loved her more admiringly, and never on such equal terms. She was his mate in love and daring at least. A sorrowful comparison struck him, of a little boat sailing out to a vessel in deep seas and left to founder. Without knotting his mind to acknowledge or deny the burden, for he could do neither, he stood silent, staring at her, not so much in weakness as in positive mental division. No, would be false; and Yes, not less false; and if the step was irretrievable, to say Yes would be to plunge a dagger in her bosom; but No was a vain deceit involving a double wreck. Assuredly a man standing against the world in a good cause, with a runaway wife on his hands, carries a burden, however precious it be to him. A smile of her lips, parted in an anguish of expectancy, went to death over Renée’s face. She looked at him tenderly. “The truth,” she murmured to herself, and her eyelids fell. “I am ready to bear anything,” said Beauchamp. “I weigh what you ask me, that is all. You a burden to me? But when you ask me, you make me turn round and inquire how we stand before the world.” “The world does not stone men,” said Renée. “Can’t I make you feel that I am not thinking of myself?” Beauchamp stamped in his extreme perplexity. He was gagged; he could not possibly talk to her, who had cast the die, of his later notions of morality and the world’s dues, fees, and claims on us.