He was sorrier as he observed the effect of it, but he could not soften the shock for her by any outward participation in her grief. Since he must speak at all, he must speak as he did. "Oh, to hear of such a thing!" she gasped. "Oh, to think that--well---- Oh, Mr. Heriot, I can't ... it can't be true. Isn't it some mistake? Dear Mamie would never be so wicked, I'm sure she wouldn't! It's some awful mistake, you may depend." "There's no mistake, Mrs. Baines. My authority is your niece herself. She left a letter to tell me she was going, and why." The widow moaned feebly. "With another man?" He bowed. "Oh, Heaven will punish her, Mr. Heriot! Oh, what will her father say--how could she do it! And you--how gentle and kind to her you were _I_ could see." "I did my best to make her happy," he said; "evidently I didn't succeed. Is it necessary for us to talk about it much? Believe me, you have my sympathy, but talking won't improve matters." "Oh, but I can't look at it so--so calmly, Mr. Heriot! The disgrace! and so sudden. And it isn't for _me_ to have _your_ sympathy, I'm sure. I say it isn't for _you_ to sympathise with _me_. My heart bleeds for you, Mr. Heriot." "You're very good," he answered; "but I don't know that a faithless wife is much to grieve for after all." "Ah, but you don't mean that! you were too fond of her to mean it. She'll live to repent it, you may be certain--the Lord will bring it home to her. Oh, how could she do it! You don't--you don't intend to have a divorce?" "Naturally I intend it. What else do you propose?" "Oh, I don't know," she quavered, rocking herself to and fro, and smearing the tears down her cheeks with a forefinger in a black silk glove; "but the disgrace! And all Lavender Street to read about it! Ah, you won't divorce her, Mr. Heriot? It would be so dreadful!" "Don't you want to see the man marry her?" "How 'marry her'?" she asked vaguely. "Oh, I understand! Yes, I suppose he _could_ marry her then, couldn't he? I'm not a lawyer like you--I didn't look so far ahead. But I don't want a divorce." "Ah, well, _I_ want it," he said; "for my own sake." "Then you don't love her any more, Mr. Heriot?" He laughed drearily. "Your niece has ended her life with me of her own accord. I've nothing more to do with her." "Those are cruel words," said Mrs. Baines; "those are cruel words about a girl who was your lawful wife--the flesh of your bone in the sight of Gawd and man. You're harder than I thought, Mr. Heriot; you don't take it quite as I'd have supposed you'd take it.... So quiet and stern like! I think if you'd loved her tenderly, you'd have talked more heart-broken, though it's not for me to judge." Heriot rose. "I can't discuss my sentiments with you, Mrs. Baines. Think, if you like, that I didn't care for her at all. At least my duty to her is over; and I have a duty to myself to-day."