"I did not deceive you," she said at last, with convincing sincerity. "I wrote and told you that I would marry you—not that I loved you. I knew I did not love you, because my love was given elsewhere. I loved Wolff already then, but there was a barrier between us which I believed to be insurmountable. I consented to become your wife because it seemed the best and safest thing to do. Afterwards—it was almost immediately afterwards—the barrier proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot you. That is the brutal truth. I forgot you until it was too late, because, you see, I did not feel more for you than friendship, and because I really loved. That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved before, and it was too strong for me. A wiser woman would have waited until she was free. She would have written to you and told you that it was all a mistake. I wrote to you afterwards. That is the only difference. The letter did not reach you, and you believed the worst of me. It was only natural, and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you really love, surely you can understand?" He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising, took the outstretched hands in his. "I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all mine. I should never have accepted your generous gift of yourself without your love. I might have known that it would end badly. But you were so young, dear. I thought I should be able to teach you to love. Well, some one else was cleverer and had a better chance, perhaps, than I had. I have no right to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse on my account. The worst wound is healed now that I can understand. My one prayer is that you may be very, very happy." He studied her upturned face. "You are happy, aren’t you, Nora?" For the shortest part of a minute she wavered. She repeated the question to herself and wondered. "Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost impatiently. "Why should I not be?" "I don’t know. Perhaps I am over-anxious for you. You see"—his faint smile betrayed how deep his emotion was, in spite of all self-control—"I still love you." "I am glad," she answered frankly. "I care for you too, Robert, quite enough to make me very sad if I should lose your regard. It made me miserable to think that you probably hated and despised me." "I never did that, though I believe I tried," he said. "And now that I may not give you my love, I may at least feel that I am your friend? Grant me that much, Nora. It is very little that I ask—your trust and friendship." It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had been more generous to her than she could have ever dared to hope. And yet she hesitated. "Nora!" he cried "Surely I have not deserved to lose everything!" He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded for the crumbs beneath the table, and all that was generous in her responded. The hesitation, the vague uneasiness passed. She gave him her hand.