Harvey's sympathy gave way to astonishment and strange surmise. Hurriedly he besought her not to reveal anything in her present distress; to wait till she could reflect calmly, see things in truer proportion. His embarrassment was heightened by an inability to identify this woman with the Mrs. Abbott he had known; the change in her self-presentment seemed as great and sudden as that in her circumstances. Face and voice, though scarce recognisable, had changed less than the soul of her--as Harvey imaged it. This entreaty she replied to with a steadiness, a resolve, which left him no choice but to listen. 'I cannot, dare not, think that he did this knowingly. No! He was too brave for that. He would never have left me in that way--to my despair. But it was my fault that made him angry--no, not angry; he was never that with me, or never showed it. But I had behaved with such utter selfishness----' Her misery refused to word itself. She sank down upon a chair and sobbed and moaned. 'Your grief exaggerates every little fault,' said Harvey. 'No--you must hear it all--then perhaps I can hide my shame from strangers. What use would it be if they knew? It alters nothing--it's only in my own heart. I have no right to pain you like this. I will tell you quietly. You know that he went to Waterbury, on business. Did he tell you?--it was to buy a share in a local newspaper. I, in my blindness and selfishness, disliked that. I wanted to live here; the thought of going to live in the country seemed unbearable. That Edgar was overworked and ill, seemed to me a trifle. Don't you remember how I spoke of it when you came here the other morning?--I can't understand myself. How could I think so, speak so!' The listener said nothing. 'He did what he purposed--made a bargain, and came back to conclude the purchase by correspondence. But his money--the small capital he counted upon--was in "Britannia" shares; and you know what happened yesterday--yesterday, the very day when he went to sell the shares, thinking to do so without the least difficulty.' Harvey gave a grim nod. 'He came home, and I showed that I was glad----' 'No! You accuse yourself unreasonably.' 'I tell you the truth, as my miserable conscience knows it. I was crazy with selfishness and conceit. Rightly, he left me to my cowardly temper, and went out again, and was away for a long time. He came back to dinner, and then the suffering in his face all but taught me what I was doing. I wanted to ask him to forgive me--to comfort him for his loss; but pride kept me from it. I couldn't speak--I couldn't! After dinner he said he had a lot of work to do, and came into this room. At ten o'clock I sent him coffee. I wished to take it myself--O God! if only I had done so! I _wished_ to take it, and speak to him, but still I couldn't. And I knew he was in torture; I saw at dinner that pain was racking him. But I kept away, and went to my own bed, and slept--whilst he was lying here.'