'I suppose,' she goes on, her mood changing--it is never the same for two minutes together, and her mockery giving way to a tone of condensed resentful wretchedness--'that if I loved you properly, as people love in books, I should be glad to see you march off triumphantly, with drums beating and colours flying, to be happy ever after; but I am not! I tell you fairly I am not! If I had my will you should be as miserable--no, _that_ you never could be; I would let you off with less than that--as I am!' He looks at her sadly. 'Even if I were so happy as you fear, a couple of hours ago, I think you have cured me of it.' 'You used to be a kind-hearted man,' she says, scanning, as if in dispassionate search, his sorrowful features; 'perhaps you are still, if happiness has not hardened your heart. It does harden the heart sometimes, they tell me; it is a long time since I have had a chance of judging by experience. But, if you are, try not to let me hear much of your happiness--try to keep it as quiet as you can.' Her last words are almost inaudible through the excess of the emotion that has dictated them. 'Perhaps you will have your wish,' he says gloomily, for the last half-hour seems to have shaken all the fabric of his prospective Elysium; 'perhaps there will not be much to hide.' 'That is a very civil suggestion on your part,' she answers, relapsing into biting sarcasm; 'so likely, too. Go on. I am cheered already: find out some more equally probable topics of consolation for me. Why do not you remind me that I still have my husband--my husband whose society _you_ have taught me so much to enjoy; my visiting-book; my--my----' 'You have your _boy_,' he interrupts sternly, goaded into anger out of compassion by her tone. Her hands drop from his, and a light shiver runs over her shuddering body. '_I--have--my--boy_,' she repeats slowly; 'so I have. God forgive me for having even for one moment forgotten him! Yes, I have him--bless him! but for how long? Even if he lives--oh, he _will_ live! God cannot take _him_ too from me--I was a fool ever to fear it; but even if he lives to grow up, he too will go from me. People will tell him things about me; or if they do not tell him, he will pick up hints. I shall see it in his eyes, and then he--too--will--go--from me!' breaking into a long moaning sob. 'I suppose,' looking in utter revolt up to heaven, 'that _They_ will be satisfied then. I shall have nothing--_nothing_--NOTHING left!' She has broken into a storm of frantic tears, that rain from her eyes and career unheeded down her white gown. He can only look on miserably.