"You pass all comprehension! What! You are no longer in error about this man; the glamour has passed. You know him for the cold cynical profligate he is; and you talk of welcoming him like a repentant prodigal; only yourself it is you are prepared to kill--your own pride, your own delicacy, your own heart! Good God! what are good women made of, that they set such monstrous codes up for themselves, and adhere to them so mercilessly!" "He is my husband," she faltered out; and for a moment her courage seemed to fail. The next she rose, and standing by the mantelpiece, where he had stood before, she went on, with hurry and agitation in her voice: "Don't mistake me. Love is dead and gone for me. But this world is not the be-all and the end-all; there is an inheritance beyond it, reserved for those who have 'overcome.' Duty is hard, but it is never intolerable to a steadfast will, and a mind, fixed on the truth. Time is long, and the round of wrong is tedious; but the day wears through best to those who subdue impatience, and wrong loses half its bitterness when self is conquered. I have learned my lesson, Sir Laurence, and chosen my part." "And what is to be mine?" he said with angry impatience,--"what is to be mine? You moralize charmingly, Lady Mitford; and your system is perfect, with one little exception--and what is that? A mere nothing, a trifle--only a man's heart, only a love that is true! You are all alike, I believe, bad or good, in this,--you will pine after, you will endure anything for, a man who is false to you, and you will tread upon the heart of one who is true. What do you care? We do not square with the moral code of the good among you, nor with the caprice and devilment of the bad; and so away with us! I am 'cruel' to you, forsooth, because I tell you that you no longer love a worthless profligate, who sports with your peace and your honour at the bidding of a wanton! I am 'cruel' because I tell you that I, who have innocently wronged you, love you with every pulse of my heart and every impulse of my will! Is there any cruelty on your side, do you think, when you talk, not puling sentiment--I could more easily pardon that; it would be mere conventional silliness--but these chilly, chilling moralities, which are fine in copy-books, but which men and women abandon with their writing-lessons?" "Do they?" she said with imperturbable gentleness; "I think not. You are angry and unjust, Sir Laurence,--angry with _me_, unjust to _me!_" The keen pathos of her tone, its innocent pleading, utterly overcame him. "Yes," he cried; "I _am_ unjust, and you are an angel of goodness; but--I love you,--ah, how I love you!--and you reject me, utterly, utterly. You reject me, and for him! You give _her_ a double triumph; you lay my life waste once more." He stopped in his hurried walk close to her. She laid her hand upon his arm, and they looked at one another in silence for a little. She broke it first.