"The first time. And you know what the state of my mind was then. But to the end I never felt any--I never really loved him. We met and went to places together. After my loneliness--you can understand. But I distrusted him. Did Patty tell you why I left London so suddenly?" "Yes." "When that happened I knew my instinct had been right from the first. It gave me very little pain, but I was ashamed and disgusted. He hadn't tried to deceive me in words; he never spoke of marriage; and from what I found out then, I saw that he was very much to be pitied." "You seem to contradict yourself," said Hilliard. "Why were you ashamed and disgusted?" "At finding myself in the power of such a woman. He married her when she was very young, and I could imagine the life he had led with her until he freed himself. A hateful woman!" "Hateful to you, I see," muttered the listener, with something tight at his heart. "Not because I felt anything like jealousy. You must believe me. I should never have spoken if I hadn't meant to tell you the simple truth." Again he pressed her hand. The warmth of her body had raised his blood to fever-heat. "When we met again, after I came back, it was by chance. I refused to speak to him, but he followed me all along the street, and I didn't know it till I was nearly home. Then he came up again, and implored me to hear what he had to say. I knew he would wait for me again in High Street, so I had no choice but to listen, and then tell him that there couldn't be anything more between us. And, for all that, he followed me another day. And again I had to listen to him." Hilliard fancied that he could feel her heart beat against his arm. "Be quick!" he said. "Tell all, and have done with it." "He told me, at last, that he was ruined. His wife had brought him into money difficulties; she ran up bills that he was obliged to pay, and left him scarcely enough to live upon. And he had used money that was not his own--he would have to give an account of it in a day or two. He was trying to borrow, but no one would lend him half what he needed----" "That's enough," Hilliard broke in, as her voice became inaudible. "No, you ought to know more than I have told you. Of course he didn't ask me for money; he had no idea that I could lend him even a pound. But what I wish you to know is that he hadn't spoken to me again in the old way. He said he had done wrong, when he first came to know me; he begged me to forgive him that, and only wanted me to be his friend." "Of course." "Oh, don't be ungenerous: that's so unlike you." "I didn't mean it ungenerously. In his position I should have done exactly as he did." "Say you believe me. There was not a word of love between us. He told me all about the miseries of his life--that was all; and I pitied him so. I felt he was so sincere." "I believe it perfectly." "There was no excuse for what I did. How I had the courage--the shamelessness--is more than I can understand now."