"I do know," she said. "I have felt it all. But this is the difference between me and certain others. You--you, I mean--Mildred, anybody, say, 'I desire something; and, after all, what does it matter?' Others and I say, 'It does not signify what I desire, and there is nothing in the world which matters more.' Oh, Jack, Jack!"--and for the second time she looked at him--"there is the vital and the eternal difference between us," she went on, speaking very slowly and weighing her words. "It is in this that there lies the one great incompatibility. If I were as you, if I could conceivably take the same view as you take, and think it possible that I should be able to be to another what Mildred has been to you, I would condone everything, because I should understand it. It would not matter then whether I had reached, as you have, the natural outcome of that possibility. If I could soberly imagine myself in that relation to another man than you, I would confess that there was no earthly reason why we should not continue to live comfortably together. But I cannot. I am not an adulteress. Therefore I will not, in act or in name, live with you any longer." * * * * * Then for one moment she blazed up. "And it was you, you who have been living like this," she cried, "who could tell me to be careful, for fear people should talk! It was you who told me you had heard an evil, foolish tale about me! Go to your mistress!" She stood up, pointing with an unsteady hand to the door. Cell after secret cell of her brain caught the fire, and blazed with white-hot indignation. That consuming intensity was rapid. Soon all was burned. "You had better go, Jack," she said quietly. He rose. "I do not wish to argue with you," he said, "nor shall I now or henceforth put in any defence. But--and I say this not in the least hope of influencing the decision you have made--remember that a certain number of weeks ago I should have come back to you and I should have told you. I am speaking the truth. That is nearly all. You will find it more convenient, no doubt, to stay here for the present. I shall be at the Carlton. And--and----" His voice for the first time faltered and his lip quivered. "And I am sorry, Marie. You may not believe it now nor for years to come. But it is true. Good-bye." He went out of the room without stopping, without even looking at her, and she was left alone again. That moment of passionate outburst had tried her; she felt weary, done for. But almost immediately Lady Ardingly entered again. "I heard him go down-stairs, my dear," she said, "but I did not see him. I hope you gave it him hot!" "Yes, I suppose you might call it that," said Marie.