Ramsay’s face was white and drawn. He came out in the room only a little beyond the window, his back against the red and gold Renaissance curtain. It framed him with its long lines falling behind him. He seemed to stand between in the folds. “Please!” he said. “Don’t get me anything.” He might have been embroidered on the satin of the curtains. He was moveless and beautiful in his pallor and silence; nevertheless he was only a modern figure, a modern man. “How could you? How could you?” she breathed. “I did not think you would come to-night and yet I hoped you would”--and she felt her voice desert her--“and explain.” He repeated the word “explain” with a laugh. “I came back because I wanted to see you--for no other reason.” She interrupted him with a passionate gesture as though she would dismiss her memories and his. “To see _me_ again! _What_ can this matter?” In spite of herself she cried, “How horrible! How horrible!” and she covered her face. He understood that she hated herself because he had taken her in his arms. He looked quietly at her from his greater height, and his expression did not indicate that all day he had been wandering like a hunted animal. “This is the most dreadful thing that has ever come into my life! Oh! Why _did_ you come back?” she cried. “To see _you_--just to see _you_.” There was a silence between them for a second, and the clock in the hall outside struck one. Ramsay said: “You are sick with disgust. You are full of regret at--_our love_.” “You think of that first! You think of that first of all!” “First--second--last and above everything.” “After what I saw this morning every word like that is an insult,” Mrs. Hereford said. Ramsay came forward and caught her hands, saying tensely: “And the look I saw on your face to-day when you came in the gift room? You use the word insult. What was the look I saw on your face when you came into the room?” She murmured: “Explain, you must explain, you _must_!” He let her hands fall. “I have nothing to explain. “You knew I was poor. A poor man has debts--gambling debts perhaps. Then there are women in men’s lives who make dreadful scandals--there is blackmail. A chap does things in desperation and is not all bad. I have known men to do such things. But from the moment I saw that look on your face to-day, the look which said you thought I was a thief, the world stopped for me.” He threw back his head and gave a little laugh. “It will never go on as it was before.” Here she put out her hand as if about to take his, but let it fall. “I’ve nothing to explain. The fact that for the tenth of a second you believed me a thief makes everything else of no value. Of course now”--there was a break in his voice--“you don’t even believe in my love!” His voice was low, but there was a ring in it that she never forgot. “It doesn’t make any difference any more. I’ve tramped with that horror all day.