“You asked me why I had come. You think it possible that three months can change one very thoroughly, then?” he said, in a cold voice. “I not only think it possible; I have proved it,” she replied, wearily. He turned round and faced her. “You _did_ love me, Kathleen!” he asserted. “You never said so in words, but I know it,” he added, fiercely. “Yes, I did.” “And--you mean that you don’t now?” Her voice was very tired. “Yes; I can’t help it,” she answered; “it has gone--utterly.” The gray sea slowly lapped the rocks. Overhead the sharp scream of a gull cut through the stillness. It was broken again, a moment afterward, by a short hard laugh from the man. “Don’t!” she whispered, and laid a hand swiftly on his arm. “Do you think it isn’t worse for me? I wish to God I _did_ love you!” she cried, passionately. “Perhaps it would make me forget that, to all intents and purposes, I am a murderess.” Broomhurst met her wide, despairing eyes with an amazement which yielded to sudden pitying comprehension. “So that is it, my darling? You are worrying about _that_? You who were as loyal as--” She stopped him with a frantic gesture. “Don’t! _don’t!_” she wailed. “If you only knew! Let me try to tell you--will you?” she urged, pitifully. “It may be better if I tell some one--if I don’t keep it all to myself, and think, and _think_.” She clasped her hands tight, with the old gesture he remembered when she was struggling for self-control, and waited a moment. Presently she began to speak in a low, hurried tone: “It began before you came. I know now what the feeling was that I was afraid to acknowledge to myself. I used to try and smother it; I used to repeat things to myself all day--poems, stupid rhymes--_anything_ to keep my thoughts quite underneath--but I--_hated_ John before you came! We had been married nearly a year then. I never loved him. Of course you are going to say, ‘Why did you marry him?’” She looked drearily over the placid sea. “Why _did_ I marry him? I don’t know; for the reason that hundreds of ignorant, inexperienced girls marry, I suppose. My home wasn’t a happy one. I was miserable, and oh--_restless_. I wonder if men know what it feels like to be restless? Sometimes I think they can’t even guess. John wanted me very badly; nobody wanted me at home particularly. There didn’t seem to be any point in my life. Do you understand? . . . Of course, being alone with him in that little camp in that silent plain”--she shuddered--“made things worse. My nerves went all to pieces. Everything he said, his voice, his accent, his walk, the way he ate, irritated me so that I longed to rush out sometimes and shriek--and go _mad_. Does it sound ridiculous to you to be driven mad by such trifles? I only know I used to get up from the table sometimes and walk up and down outside, with both hands over my mouth to keep myself quiet. And all the time I _hated_ myself--how I hated myself! I never had a word from him that wasn’t gentle and tender.