"Bertha," he demanded, "what are you trying to prove to me?" "Only a little thing," she answered; "that I need my amusements, and cannot live without them." He rose from his seat also. "That you cannot live without Senator Planefield?" he said. "Go and tell him so," was her reply. "It would please him, and perhaps this evening he would be inclined to place some confidence in the statement." She turned and walked to the end of the room; then she came back and stood quite still before him. "I am going to tell you something I would rather keep to myself," she said. "It may save us both trouble if I don't spare myself as my vanity prompts me to do. I said I was no worse than the other nine; but I am--a little. I am not very fond of anything or any one. Not so fond even of--Richard and the children, as I seem. I know that, though they do not. If they were not attractive and amiable, or if they interfered with my pleasures, my affection would not stand many shocks. In a certain way I am emotional enough always to appear better than I am. Things touch me for a moment. I was touched a little just now when you spoke of remembering my being a girl. I was moved when Janey was ill and you were so good to me. I almost persuaded myself that I was good too, and faithful and affectionate, and yet at the same time I knew it was only a fancy, and I should get over it. It is easy for me to laugh and cry when I choose. There are tears in my eyes now, but--they don't deceive me." "They look like real tears, Bertha," he said. "They would have deceived me--if you had not given me warning." "They always _look_ real," she answered. "And is not there a sort of merit in my not allowing you to believe in them? Call it a merit, won't you?" His face became like a mask. For several seconds he did not speak. The habit he had of taking refuge in utter silence was the strongest weapon he could use against her. He did not know its strength; he only knew that it was the signal of his own desperate helplessness; but it left her without defence or resource. "Won't you?" she said, feeling that she must say something. He hesitated before replying. "No," he answered, stonily, after the pause. "I won't call it a merit. I wish you would leave me--something." That was very hard. "It is true," she returned, "that I do not--leave you very much." The words cost her such an effort that there were breaks between them. "No," he said, "not much." There was something almost dogged in his manner. He could not bear a great deal more, and his consciousness of this truth forced him to brace himself to outward hardness.