He had been fast awakening from the dream of the morning. He was alive now. The dazement of that momentous ceremony had worn away. He rose and went a little way towards her. He would have taken her in his arms then and there, but this time the arm’s length was a reality. Her hand touched his breast, and the arm stiffened. He felt the rebuff in the act, and it seemed to him that his heart went cold, and that all the vague terrors of the previous days crystallised into one concrete and terrible truth. He knew all that she had to say before she spoke. It was some time before she found the words she wanted, the opening was so difficult. “Gilbert,” she said at last, “I am going to do a cowardly thing. It is only cowardly because I have not told you before.” He motioned her to the settee. He had woven a little romance for this moment, a dream scene which was never to be enacted. Here was the shattering. “I won’t sit down,” she said, “I want all my strength to tell you what I have to tell you. If I hadn’t been an arrant coward I should have told you last night. I meant to tell you,” she said, “but you did not come.” He nodded. “I know,” he said, almost impatiently. “I could not come. I did not wish--I could not come,” he repeated. “You know what I have to tell you?” Her eyes were steadily fixed on his. “Gilbert, I do not love you.” He nodded again. “I know now,” he said. “I never have loved you,” she said in tones of despair; “there never was any time when I regarded you as more than a dear friend. But----” She wanted to tell him why, but a sense of loyalty to her mother kept her silent. She would take all the blame, for was she not blameworthy? For she, at least, was mistress of her own soul: had she wished, she could have taken a line of greater resistance than that which she had followed. “I married you,” she went on slowly, “because--because you are--rich--because you will be rich.” Her voice dropped at the last word until it was husky. There was a hard fight going on within her. She wanted to tell the truth, and yet she did not want him to think so badly of her as that. “For my money!” he repeated wonderingly. “Yes, I--I wanted to marry a man with money. We have had--a very hard time.” The confession came in little gasps; she had to frame every sentence before she spoke. “You mustn’t blame mother, I was equally guilty; and I ought to have told you--I wanted to tell you.” “I see,” he said calmly. It is wonderful what reserves of strength come at a man’s bidding. In this terrible crisis, in this moment when the whole of his life’s happiness was shattered, when the fabric of his dream was crumbling like a house of paper, he could be judicial, almost phlegmatic. He saw her sway, and springing to her side caught her. “Sit down,” he said quietly. She obeyed without protest. He settled her in the corner of the settee, pushed a cushion almost viciously behind her, and walked back to the fireplace.