"Peter--dear Peter!" she broke in. "It was not then. It was only after I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home. You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have tried, and I was going to keep on trying--ever so hard. I had ruined my own life and his life, and--and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be dishonest with you." She was talking hysterically, anxious only to relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were at a play. "Peter--say something!" she begged. "It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me," he said. "You mean you--you don't want me, Peter?" "Want you?" he cried hoarsely. "I'd go through hell to get you. I'd stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?" He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In spite of herself, she shrank away. "You see," he ran on. "What difference does it make if I want you? You belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his." With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:-- "You must n't say such things, Peter." "I'm only telling the truth, and there's no harm in that. I 'm telling you what you have n't dared tell yourself." "Things I mustn't tell myself!" she cried. "Things I must n't hear." "What I don't understand," he said, "is why Covington did n't tell you all this himself. He must have known." "He knew nothing," she broke in. "I was a mere incident in his life. We met in Paris quite by accident when he happened to have an idle week. He was alone and I was alone, and he saved me from a disagreeable situation. Then, because he still had nothing in particular to do and I had nothing in particular to do, he suggested this further arrangement. We were each considering nothing but our own comfort. We wanted nothing more. It was to escape just such complications as this--to escape responsibility, as I told you--that we--we married. He was only a boy, Peter, and knew no better. But I was a woman, and should have known. And I came to know! That was my punishment." "He came to know, too," said Peter.