"I knew it. Do you remember the last time you came to see me? We quarrelled--we were always quarrelling--but we always made it up. That day we made it up as usual, but you were still a little bit angry when you went away. And then I cried like a fool. And then you came back, and--you remember--" "Go on," he said. He had bridged the ten years, and the scene was going splendidly. "Go on; you must go on." "You came and knelt down by me," she said cheerfully. "It was as good as a play--you took me in your arms and told me you couldn't bear to leave me with the slightest cloud between us. You called me your heart's dearest, I remember--a phrase you'd never used before--and you said such heaps of pretty things to me! And at last, when you had to go, you swore we should never quarrel again--and that came true, didn't it?" "Ah, but _why_?" "Well, as you went out I saw you pick up your gloves off the table, and I _knew_--" "Knew what?" "Why, that it was the gloves you had come back for and not me--only when you saw me crying you were sorry for me, and determined to do your duty whatever it cost you. Don't! What's the matter?" He had caught her wrists in his hands and was scowling angrily at her. "Good God! was _that_ all? I _did_ come back for you. I never thought of the damned gloves. I don't remember them. If I did pick them up, it must have been mechanically and without noticing. And you ruined my life for _that_?" He was genuinely angry; he was back in the past, where he had a right to be angry with her. Her eyes grew soft. "Do you mean to say that I was _wrong_--that it was all my fault--that you _did_ love me?" "Love you?" he said roughly, throwing her hands from him; "of course I loved you--I shall always love you. I've never left off loving you. It was you who didn't love me. It was all your fault." He leaned his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. He was breathing quickly. The scene had swept him along in its quickening flow. He shut his eyes, and tried to catch at something to steady himself--some rope by which he could pull himself to land again. Suddenly an arm was laid on his neck, a face laid against his face. Lips touched his hand, and her voice, incredibly softened and tuned to the key of their love's overture, spoke-- "Oh, forgive me, dear, forgive me! If you love me still--it's too good to be true--but if you do--ah, you do!--forgive me, and we can forget it all! Dear, forgive me! I love you so!" He was quite still, quite silent. "Can't you forgive me?" she began again. He suddenly stood up. "I'm married," he said. He drew a long breath and went on hurriedly, standing before her, but not looking at her. "I can't ask you to forgive me--I shall never forgive myself."