“He was always ill--or imagining himself ill. He took medicine until he nearly drove me crazy with his bottles and plasters. He lived in a bath chair when he was as well able to walk about as I was--and I was chained to that bath chair. Everything made him ill--even my singing. He would not let me sing--only think of it--think of it.” Madame Koller glanced at Pembroke through her tears. He had stood up and was saying something vague but comforting. The late Mr. Koller was indeed a dreadful reminiscence. “Banish that time as far as you can,” he said. “The present is yours.” “Is it?” she said. “Now I will say to you that black as that past is, it is not so black as this present. Now I endure torments far greater than any I felt then.” Pembroke’s strong jaw was set resolutely. He felt rising tumultuously within him that masculine pity that has wrecked many men. He would not, if he could help it, prove false to himself with this woman, in spite of her tears and her voice. “What have you to say to me?” she demanded, after a pause. “This,” answered Pembroke, with much outward boldness. “That your coming here is an unsuccessful experiment. The same things that made this country life distasteful to you in your childhood even, make it distasteful now. This is not your native atmosphere. You will never be anything but morbid and wretched here. This country life is like death to you--and almost like death to me.” “Then why--why--” “Why do I stand it? Because I must. Because as a man, I must. Here is my work, my duty, my manhood. Don’t be surprised to hear me talk this way. You haven’t heard me speak of these things before--but still they govern me some--more of late than they used to do. There is a good deal here that is melancholy enough to me--but I would be a poltroon if I started out to make life amusing. You see, I have considerable ambition--and that impels me to work.” Madame Koller surveyed him keenly. By degrees the fire of resentment rose in her eyes. She was angered at his coolness, at his calm reasoning. Prudence in love is commonly regarded as a beggarly virtue by women. “After all,” she said, “what are you to me? Nothing but a whim, a caprice. But had you spoken to me a year ago as you do now, I should not be here.” Pembroke remembered with a blush some slight love-making episodes, and her tone stung him. “I can play the rascal if you like,” he said, angrily. “I can pretend to feel what I don’t feel, but I warn you, I shan’t be a pleasant rascal. If ever I take to villainy I shall probably take to drink and gambling too.”