"I did not wish to distress my poor brother," he rejoined. "Then you deceived me by professing what you did not feel?" "I have no explanation to give." "Yet you have remained here with me during my long illness." "I had a duty to perform." "Was it not out of love that you have stayed with me?" "It was not." She strove to look at him steadily, but her eyes wavered; his were unflinching. "On the last day I saw my dear husband--What is the meaning of that gesture?" For Leonard had put up his hand with scornful motion. "Your assumption of innocence and indignation does not deceive me; it will deceive no one who knows you. Go on. On the last day you saw my dear brother----" "I had reason to believe," she continued, "that I had won the respect, if not the affection, of those around me, strangers though they were. I passed through a dangerous illness, and have been mercifully spared. I thank God humbly for it. Recovering, I am met with coldness whichever way I turn. People avoid me. Why?" "Search your own heart for the answer." "I have questioned my heart, and find none. I have done no wrong." "You have singular ideas of morality. Is living with a man as his mistress a virtuous act?" "Great God! How dare you speak those words to me?" "Because they are true. People avoid you because the truth is known. Spare hysterics; they will not help you. You are not fit to associate with virtuous women." "How dare you, how dare you? Gerald and I were man and wife." "You never were. You and my dear, fond brother--dear to me, weak though he was--were never married. With his death ended your life of deceit. You were Gerald's mistress, not his wife." CHAPTER XXXVI. "ONLY YOU AND I, DARLING, ONLY YOU AND I." The horror of this infamous statement so completely overwhelmed her that she lost the power of speech. The room swam before her; in her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her slight form swayed like a reed in the throes of a pitiless storm. Presently Leonard spoke again, and his voice brought some clearness to her distracted mind; but every word he uttered cut into her heart like a sharp knife. "If you are not sufficiently composed to hear what it is my duty to say, I will leave you and come again in an hour." She motioned to him to remain, and her trembling hands then stretched themselves toward a bottle of water on the table. He poured some into a glass, which he placed close to her. Rallying a little she managed to raise the glass to her lips, and to drink, the cold draught revived her fainting senses. "Speak," she said. "Say what you have to say."