His expression changed, as she had so often seen it change. From menace it passed to petulance and then became almost pleading in its perplexity. She said to herself: “It’s the first time I’ve ever been brave with him, and he doesn’t know how to take it.” But even then she felt the precariousness of the advantage. His ready wit had so often served him instead of resolution. It served him now. “You do mean to make the charge, then?” he retorted. She stood silent, feeling herself defeated, and at the same time humiliated that their angry thoughts should have dragged them down to such a level. “Don’t sneer--” she faltered. “Sneer? At what? I’m in dead earnest--can’t you see it? You’ve ruined me--or very nearly. I’m not speaking now of my feelings; that would make _you_ sneer, probably. At any rate, this is no time for discussing them. I’m merely putting my case as a poor devil who has to earn his living, a man who has his good name to defend. On both counts you’ve done me all the harm you could.” “I had to stop this marriage.” “Very well. I agreed to that. I did what I’d promised. Couldn’t you let it alone?” “No. Because Anne wouldn’t. She wanted to ask you to come back. She saw I couldn’t bear it--she suspected me of knowing something. She insisted.” “And you sacrificed my good name rather--” “Oh, I’d sacrifice anything. You’d better understand that.” “I do understand it. That’s why I’m here. To tell you I consider that what you’ve done has freed me from my promise.” She stretched out her hands as if to catch him back. “Chris--no, stay! You can’t! You can’t! You know you can’t!” He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, his arms crossed, his head a little bent and thrust forward, in the attitude of sullen obstinacy that she knew so well. And all at once in her own cry she heard the echo of other cries, other entreaties. She saw herself in another scene, stretching her arms to him in the same desperate entreaty, with the same sense of her inability to move him, even to reach him. Her tears overflowed and ran down. “You don’t mean you’ll tell her?” she whispered. He kept his dogged attitude. “I’ve got to clear myself--somehow.” “Oh, don’t tell her, don’t tell her! Chris, don’t tell her!” As the cry died on her lips she understood that, in uttering it, she had at last cast herself completely on his mercy. For it was not impossible that, if other means failed, he would risk justifying himself to Anne by revealing the truth. There were times when he was reckless enough to risk anything. And if Kate were right in her conjecture--if he had the audacity he affected--then his hold over her was complete, and he knew it. If any one else told Anne, the girl’s horror would turn her from him at once. But what if he himself told her? All this flashed on Kate Clephane in the same glare of enlightenment.