“Geoffrey,” she said, “I cannot bear it. All these weeks you have borne with me—with all my strange fancies and wayward tempers. You have been very good to me, for truly I have been very trying. You must have thought me strangely unlike what you fancied me. I am strangely unlike what I was, sadly changed from my old self, for I used to be gentle and sweet tempered, Geoffrey. I must tell you the truth, cost what it may, for otherwise I cannot live beside you. Geoffrey, poor Geoffrey, it is dreadful for me to say, and dreadful for you to hear. I told you a falsehood that day—the day I promised to marry you. I said at least you had now no rival. I told you I no longer loved that other whom I had loved so intensely. It was no intentional falsehood. I believed it myself; but for all that it was not true. I did still love him, Geoffrey, then when I said I did not. I did love him even then, with all the love of my nature. And, oh, Geoffrey, I love him now. Forgive me, for I am most miserable —pity me, for I cannot forgive myself.” There was not the slightest sound. The hand she still held tightly clasped was not withdrawn, but Geoffrey spoke not a word. Marion went on. “I will tell you all about it. All at least that you ought to know. How I found it out I mean. It was a fortnight after we were married. That day, do you remember, at the Peacock when you thought I was ill? I—” “Hush!” said her husband, “you need not tell me. I have no need to hear what it must cost you much to tell. You saw him, I suppose, saw him, or heard from him—it does not matter which. There had been some mistake, I suppose. He was not married as you had been told?” “Yes,” she said, repeating his very words mechanically, “there had been a mistake. He was not married.” “Ah!” muttered Geoffrey. It sounded like a groan. “I will tell you”—she began again, but he stopped her again. “No,” he said, “do not tell me. Do not treat me as if I were a judge and you a culprit at the bar. Heaven knows, I have heard enough. And God knows, I trust you, Marion, trust you utterly and entirely. Were you less worthy of my trust this might be easier to bear. I can’t quite see it yet. I can’t get it plain to myself. But that will come, I suppose. Only do not ever tell me any more. It need never again be mentioned between us. I think —I think I should thank you for telling me. It was right, I suppose, but I can’t quite see it yet. For my part in it all, for what I did wrong—the persisting in trying to win you, I mean—I ask you to forgive me.” “Forgive you?” she exclaimed; “oh, Geoffrey, your asking it crushes me.” “I do not wish to pain you,” he said, gently but resolutely withdrawing the hand she still held. “But you must remember it is rather hard on me—all this. I cannot just yet get accustomed to it. So if in any way I Fain you, you must forgive me.” Then he got up and strolled to the window. It was a beautiful summer evening—a picture of peace and calm loveliness.