"Yes, I can," she said. "It was very bitter at the time, but I thought it was so brave of you--and kind, too--to care what became of me. If you remember, I did want to trust you, even on that dreadful day, but you wouldn't let me." "I was a brute," he said remorsefully. "I do want to tell you one thing. Even if that boy had been holding my hand I should have thought I had a right to let him, if I liked--just as much as though I were a girl, or a widow." "I don't understand. But tell me--please tell me anything you _will_ tell me." His tone was very humble. "My husband was a beast," she said calmly. "He betrayed me, he beat me, he had every vile quality a man can have. No, I'll be just to him: he was always good tempered when he was drunk. But when he was sober he used to beat me and pinch me--" "But--but you could have got a separation, a divorce," he gasped. "A separation wouldn't have freed me--really. And the Church doesn't believe in divorce," she said demurely. "_I_ did, however, and I left him, and instructed a solicitor. But the brute went mad before I could get free from him; and now, I suppose, I'm tied for life to a mad dog." "Good God!" said the Reverend Christopher. "I thought it all out--oh, many, many nights!--and I made up my mind that I would go out and enjoy myself. I never had a good time when I was a girl. And another thing I decided--quite definitely--that if ever I fell in love I would--I should have the right to--I mean that I wouldn't let a horrible, degraded brute of a lunatic stand between me and the man I loved. And I was quite sure that I was right." "And do you still think this?" he asked in a low voice. "Ah," she said, "you've changed everything! I don't think the same about anything as I used to do. I think those two years with him must have made me nearly as mad as he is. And then I was so young! I am only twenty-three now, you know--and it did seem hard never to have had any fun. I did want so much to be happy." She had not intended to speak like this, but even as she spoke she saw that this truth-telling far outshone the lamp of lies she had trimmed ready. "You _will_ be happy," he said; "there are better things in the world than--" "Yes," she said; "oh, yes!" Betty did nothing by halves. She had kept a barrier between her and him till she had excited him to break it down. The barrier once broken, she let it lie where he had thrown it, and became, all at once, in the most natural, matter-of-fact, guileless way, his friend.