"Listen," said Mrs. Kildair, seizing her arm, and Beecher was struck with the savageness of her energy. "Things are no longer the same. You are alone—absolutely alone. Do you understand what that means—without a cent—alone?" "What do I care?" "Not now; but in a week, in a month— You think you know the greatest suffering in the world; you don’t—the greatest is poverty. Whatever has happened, you are Mrs. Enos Bloodgood. Only yourself can destroy that. One life is ended in you. You have loved. That will never come again—not the same. Life is long and terrible." "What, you can suggest such a thing?" said Mrs. Bloodgood, raising her head indignantly. "Such an infamy?" "Yes—because I know. The world is not an equal one. A woman can not fight as a man can. A year from now, when you can suffer no further, do you want to wake up in a dingy boarding-house, cut off from all you have lived in? For a great love—perhaps—but to be alone? No, no! Elise, you will do as I say because I can see better than you. You are Mrs. Enos Bloodgood—you have everything that a million women covet. It is your life; you will go back." "Ah, how can you say that to me now?" said Mrs. Bloodgood, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. "Because the world is different from the world of this morning—because everything is different, Elise. There are no longer the reasons that existed. You are alone against the world. You know your husband—one public word or action, and he will cast you off like an old shoe." "How can I go back?" she said, sitting down, half subdued. "How can I get the strength? I don’t know yet what has happened. I can’t realize it—oh, if I had only had my way! If he had only let me leave a month—two months ago. If I’d only been firm; if we had gone that night—that night we were here—when I begged him to. If he had only loved me more than his honor, as I loved him. If only I—" "Elise," said the quiet voice of Mrs. Kildair. The young woman checked herself, breaking off and moving again; but almost immediately broke out again: "And now you want me to go back to _him_. Oh, if you knew how I hate him, how I loathe him—what that life means—how cruel he can be, how he can make me suffer by a word or a look—how he enjoys—" "Elise, Elise!" "I can’t go, Rita, I can’t! Don’t ask me to go now. Let me stay a while here, just tonight, where I can weep," she cried. "No, no. It must be now—soon. You have left your home with your trunks—he knows it. If you return—you return because you are worried—the panic—on his account." "Ah, what a lie!"