She knew what they must mean to him and once again her soul veered round to Ruth's mood of pity--pity and regret. It was her fault, this, she knew that; he had been right all through. He was so right and strong, and that was partly where her anger lay. She could have forgiven a weak idiot like Ally better. She looked down at him; wavering, torn by two instincts, doubtful. She looked. She could not see his face, but on the blotting-pad there dropped two tears. She had not known that men could cry. Those two damp spots that spread on the green pad beneath her fascinated eyes told her of what his agony of tortured pride must be--and brought back to her memory those words of Ruth's; "He's nothing but a child: be gentle." He was _not_ strong and right. He did _not_ have a soul of iron, this man: _not_ despise her as a weakling. He was weak himself. He was a child and wanted sympathy.... Some other words of his came drifting back to her as she stared blankly at those spots of darker green and he sat with his head averted--was it in anger or in shame? He never would have married a woman who wrote: hated clever women! All that came back to her. Had she played fair? He wanted somebody to help, encourage; could she be his rival? For better, for worse---- Suddenly she found herself talking. "Hugh," she was saying, back on the words of a yet earlier rehearsal, "I'm so sorry. I've been such a beast, and I _have_ wanted so to do the proper thing. I've been a beastly wife to you, and now I've come to say you're right. I can't finish the new book; I can't get on at all." She paused and said deliberately; "I'm just an amateur." And in one moment, before she had finished, he was on his feet. He had his arms round her with all of his old love, and held her at arms' length, and looked at her with pride, as though she had just spoken of anything except her failure. "Darling little girl," he said, "don't, don't, you make me feel so bad. Don't say you've been a beast. Do you think _I_ don't know what I've been to you? Do you think I don't know how true the whole book was?" She smiled back at him, and he never saw the little bitterness or pathos there was in it, as she heard his old word of tolerant affection--"little." He had not used that word for ages.... He drew her to him and kissed her very lovingly. "Oh, Helena," he murmured, close beside her ear, "if only you knew how I've missed you, how miserable I've been, how I have loathed myself. You splendid people think we horrid selfish beasts don't realise our vices. Oh yes, we do though, those of us who think, but we hope no one else observes them. I knew that I had bullied Ruth, sacrificed her life to mine, and I vowed when I married you--but what's the use? You never change your nature, and I'm just a selfish swine." "Don't say such awful things, Hugh," she said gently.