The question almost carried terror with it, for she was not quite sure why Mrs. Falchion questioned her. She lifted her eyes slowly, and there was in them anxiety and joy. "It seems," she said, "like years." "He loves some one else, perhaps?" "Yes, I think so, madame." "Did you hate her?" "Oh no; I am glad for him." Here Mrs. Falchion spoke sharply, almost bitterly. Even through her soft colour a hardness appeared. "You are glad for him? You would see another woman in his arms and not be full of anger?" "Quite." "Justine, you are a fool." "Madame, there is no commandment against being a fool." "Oh, you make me angry with your meekness!" Here Mrs. Falchion caught a twig from a tree by her, snapped it in her fingers, and petulantly threw its pieces to the ground. "Suppose that the man had once loved you, and afterwards loved another--then again another?" "Madame, that would be my great misfortune, but it might be no wrong in him." "How not a wrong in him?" "It may have been my fault. There must be love in both--great love, for it to last." "And if the woman loved him not at all?" "Where, then, could be the wrong in him?" "And if he went from you,"--here her voice grew dry and her words were sharp,--"and took a woman from the depths of--oh, no matter what! and made her commit--crime--and was himself a criminal?" "It is horrible to think of; but I should ask myself how much I was to blame. . . . What would you ask yourself, madame?" "You have a strain of the angel in you, Justine. You would forgive Judas if he said, 'Peccavi.' I have a strain of Satan--it was born in me-- I would say, You have sinned, now suffer." "God give you a softer heart," said Justine, with tender boldness and sincerity. At this Mrs. Falchion started slightly, and trouble covered her face. She assumed, however, a tone almost brusque, artificially airy and unimportant. "There, that will do, thank you. . . . We have become serious and incomprehensible. Let us talk of other things. I want to be gay. . . . Amuse me."