"I don't ask very much," he said. "I only ask you to spare yourself and your children. I only ask you to keep out of danger. It is yourself I ask you to think of, not me. Treat me as you like, but don't--don't be cruel to yourself. I am afraid it does not do for a woman--even a woman as cool as you are--to trifle with herself and her name. I have heard it said so, and I could not remain silent after hearing what I did to-night." He turned as if to move away. "You are going?" she said. "Yes," he replied. "It is very late, and it would be useless to say any more." "You have not shaken hands with me," she said when he was half way to the door. The words forced themselves from her. Her power of endurance failed her at the last moment, as it had done before and would do again. He came back to her. "You will never hold out your hand to me when I shall not be ready to take it, Bertha," he said. "You know that." She did not speak. "You are chilled," he said. "Your hand is quite cold." "Yes," she replied. "I shall lie down on the sofa by the fire a little while before going upstairs." Without saying anything he left her, drew the sofa nearer to the hearth and arranged the cushions. "I would advise you not to fall asleep," he said when this was done. "I shall not fall asleep," she answered. She went to the sofa and sat down on it. "Good-night," she said. And he answered her "Good-night," and went out of the room. She sat still a few seconds after he was gone, and then lay down. Her eyes wandered over the room. She saw the ornaments, the pictures on the wall, the design of the rug, every minute object, with a clearness which seemed to magnify its importance and significance. There was a little Cloissoné jar whose pattern she never seemed to have seen before; she was looking at it when at last she spoke. "It is very hard to live," she said. "I wish it was not--so hard. I wish there was some way of helping one's self, but there is not. One can only go on--and on--and there is always something worse coming." She put her hand upon her breast. Something rose beneath it which gave her suffocating pain. She staggered to her feet, pressing one hand on the other to crush this pain down. No woman who has suffered such a moment but has done the same thing, and done it in vain. She fell, half-kneeling, half-sitting, upon the rug, her body against her chair, her arms flung out. "Why do you struggle with me?" she cried, between her sobs. "Why do you look at me so? You--hurt me! I love you! Oh! let me go--let me go! Don't you know--I can't bear it!" In the street she heard the carriages rolling homeward from some gay gathering. One of them stopped a few doors away, and the people got out of it laughing and talking. "Don't laugh!" she said, shuddering. "No one--should laugh! I laugh! O God! O God!"