“That is begging the question,” I replied. “What would such a selfish woman do in such a case, if her pleasure could not be gratified?” “You must ask that kind of woman,” was her ironical answer. I rashly felt that her castle of strength was crumbling. I ventured farther. “I have done so.” She turned slightly toward me, yet not nervously, as I had expected. “What did she say?” “She declined to answer directly.” There was a pause, in which I felt her eyes searching my face. I fear I must have learned dissimulation well; for, after a minute, I looked at her, and saw, from the absence of any curious anxiety, that I had betrayed nothing. She looked me straight in the eyes and said: “Dr. Marmion, a man must not expect to be forgiven, who has brought shame on a woman.” “Not even when he has repented and atoned?” “Atoned! How mad you are! How can there be atonement? You cannot wipe things out--on earth. We are of the earth. Records remain. If a man plays the fool, the coward, and the criminal, he must expect to wear the fool’s cap, the white feather, and the leg-chain until his life’s end. And now, please, let us change the subject. We have been bookish long enough.” She rose with a gesture of impatience. I did not rise. “Pardon me, Mrs. Falchion,” I urged, “but this interests me so. I have thought much of Anson lately. Please, let us talk a little longer. Do sit down.” She sat down again with an air of concession rather than of pleasure. “I am interested,” I said, “in looking at this question from a woman’s standpoint. You see, I am apt to side with the miserable fellow who made a false step--foolish, if you like--all for love of a selfish and beautiful woman.” “She was beautiful?” “Yes, as you are.” She did not blush at that rank compliment, any more than a lioness would, if you praised the astonishing sleekness and beauty of its skin. “And she had been a true wife to him before that?” “Yes, in all that concerned the code.” “Well?--Well, was not that enough? She did what she could, as long as she could.” She leaned far back in the chair, her eyes half shut. “Don’t you think--as a woman, not as a theorist--that Mrs. Anson might at least have come to him when he was dying?” “It would only have been uncomfortable for her. She had no part in his life; she could not feel with him. She could do nothing.” “But suppose she had loved him? By that memory, then, of the time when they took each other for better or for worse, until death should part them?” “Death did part them when the code banished him; when he passed from a free world into a cage. Besides, we are talking about people marrying, not about their loving.” “I will admit,” I said, with a little raw irony, “that I was not exact in definition.”