"Yes, Philip, I will tell you the truth, though I fear you will not like to hear it. When I first accepted the proposal you made to me, I felt convinced that, as regarded myself, the feeling which brought us together would be eternal, but I as fully believed that with you that same feeling would be only temporary. I was ready to remain with you as long as you would have me do so; but I felt sure that you would grow tired of me some day, and I told myself--secretly, of course, for I could not have insulted you or myself by saying such a thing to you then--I told myself, I say, that when that day came, the day of your weariness of me, I would go away, and make no further demand upon you." "You really believed that I should grow tired of you,--that I should wish to leave you?" Dering looked at her as a man might look at a stranger who has suddenly revealed some sinister and grotesque peculiarity of appearance or manner. "Certainly I did so. How could I divine that you alone would be different from all the men of whom I had ever heard? Still, I loved you so well--ah, Philip, I did love you so--that I would have come to you on any terms, as indeed I did come on terms very injurious to myself. But what matters now what I then thought? I see that I was wrong--you have been faithful to me in word, thought, and deed----" "Yes," said Dering fiercely, "by God, that is so! Go on!" "I also have been faithful to you----" she hesitated. "Yes, I think I may truly say it, in thought, word, and deed,----" Dering drew a long breath, and she went slowly on: "But I have realised, and that for some time past, that the day would come when I should no longer wish to be so--when I should wish to be free. I have gradually regained possession of myself, and, though I know I must fulfil all my obligations to you for the time I promised, I long for the moment of release, for the moment when I shall at last have the right to forget, as much as such things can ever be forgotten, these ten years of my life." As she spoke, pronouncing each word clearly in the foreign fashion, her voice gained a certain sombre confidence, and a flood of awful, hopeless bitterness filled the heart of the man sitting opposite to her. "And have you thought," he asked in a constrained voice, "what you are going to do? I know you have sometimes regretted your work; do you intend--or perhaps you have already applied to Mr. Farningham?" "No," she answered, and, unobserved by him, for he was staring down at the tablecloth with unseeing eyes, a deep pink flush made her look suddenly girlish, "that will not be necessary. I have, as you know, regretted my work, and of late I have sometimes thought that, things being as they were, you acted with cruel thoughtlessness in compelling me to give it all up. But in my new life there will be much for me to do." "I do not ask you," he said, suddenly, hoarsely; "I could not insult you by asking...."