"Men are such cowards," she said at last, in a low and bitter tone. "I have proved _that_ in every way: I ought to be prepared for cowardice--even from you. They want to slip out of every unpleasant position, and leave some woman to bear the brunt of it. You, for instance, want to go now, this minute, because I have said one or two things that pain you. You don't care enough for what I think to make you wish to alter my opinion--to fight it out and conquer me; you only want to get away and leave me to 'cool down,' as you would call it. You are mistaken. I am not speaking from any momentary irritation: what I say to you to-day is the result of long thought, long consideration, long patience. It would be better for you to have the courage and the manliness to listen to me." "You talk in a very extraordinary way, Rosalind,", said Caspar. "I do not understand it, and I fail to see its justice towards me. I have never refused to listen to you, have I? As for cowardice--it seemed to me that you were trying to persuade me to do a very cowardly thing just now; but perhaps I was mistaken. I will hear all that you have to say: if I was anxious to go, it was only that I might save you from tiring or hurting yourself." "It matters so much whether I am tired or hurt, does it not?" she said, with the faintest possible flicker of a smile on her white lips. "That is what you all think of--whether one suffers--suffers physically. It is my soul that is hurt, my heart that is tired--but you don't concern yourself with that sort of thing." "I assure you that I am very sorry----," he began, and then he stopped short. She had made it very difficult for him to say anything so commonplace, and yet so true. "If you are sorry," she said, in a softer tone, "and if you want to make me happier--_save yourself_." "No," said Caspar, roughly--almost violently--"by Heaven, I won't do that." "You don't wish to save yourself?" "Not at that price--the price of my honor." "Listen to me," she said, drawing nearer to him and speaking very softly. "I have made it my business during the last day or two--when I gathered that you would be let out on bail--to collect all the information that might be useful to you. You could get away to-morrow or next day by a vessel that leaves Southampton at the time I have marked on this paper. It is not an ordinary steamer--not a passenger-ship at all--and no one will know that you are on board. It would take you to Oporto. You would be safe enough in the interior--a friend of mine who went there once told me that there were charming palaces and half-ruined castles to let, where one could live as in paradise, amidst the loveliest gardens, full of fountains and birds and flowers." Her voice took on a caressing tone, as if she were dreaming of perfect happiness. "How like a woman," thought Caspar to himself, "to think only of the material side of life?" Then he corrected himself: "Like some women: not like all, thank-God!"