"Simon," she cried, laying hold of the sleeve of his coat, "I was wrong in what I said this afternoon. I own I was wrong; and I ask you to forgive me. But there should be no secrets between us and I have no wish to disguise anything. Simon"--and her eyes, usually serious and a little sulky, flew to his face and clung there brilliant with appeal--"you must know that my feeling for Mr. St. Ives existed before I ever knew you; it is a part of myself. I can't explain it; but it does you no wrong. And never could do you any wrong." During this explanation Simon had grown paler than was his wont. Pushing aside her hands and standing off from her, he had begun by drawing his fingers nervously through his fringe of hair; but as she proceeded, he became absolutely motionless and his face assumed the lines of a tragic mask. "I would not have things different even if I could," she went on; "I am content with you and you know it. But oh,"--and she threw, out both hands in a gesture exceedingly simple and genuine,--"please do not misconstrue what you cannot, perhaps, understand!" But at this point he interrupted her with a violent movement that threw the bottle of wine to the stone floor where the contents spilled in a red flood. "Once and for all," he cried, articulating the words with difficulty, "I want you to know that I will not listen to your analysis. I may deplore your interest in--in St. Ives--I do deplore it, but I do not wish to hear anything of it." He had put a special accent on the word _interest_ and Rachel once more closely examined his face. Was it possible that he purposely misconstrued the situation and chose to close his eyes to what he believed--or had he understood her? "For it is possible for a woman, as well as a man," she told herself vehemently, "to love two, and to love each differently." Gallant, courageous little heart! Thus did she disguise the truth even from herself. The wine pouring from the bottle had splashed the bedroom slippers of light felt which she had slipped over her bare feet. Now with a movement, wholly womanly, she bent and tried to remove the spots by rubbing them with her hand, while the loosened mass of her hair, dropping forward, half enveloped her like a veil. Simon's eyes gleamed, but he instantly averted his gaze. "What do you mean by coming down here?" he said harshly. "It is too damp for you. Go upstairs." Rachel lifted herself and made a trembling movement toward him. He tried to ignore her; then seizing her arm, from which the loose sleeve fell back, he pressed his lips to it once and pushed her from him. "Go upstairs;" he repeated in a voice which she scarcely recognized, and as he turned away she saw that tears were forcing themselves from beneath his tightly-closed lids and running down his convulsed face.