The sound of his voice was so grateful to her that, at first, she hardly heeded his words. “I am alone,” she added, “I am free.” It was after she had spoken, as she saw him, growing, to his own sense, infinitely small in the large confidence of her gaze, rise in a kind of agony of indecision and stand before her, stupidly staring, that she felt he had neither taken her hand, nor dropped at her feet, nor divinely guessed her trouble; that, in fact, his very silence was a summons to tell her story and justify herself. Her presence there was either a rapture or a shame. Nora felt as if she had taken a jump, and was learning in mid-air that the distance was tenfold what she had imagined. It is strange how the hinging-point of great emotions may rest on an instant of time. These instants, however, seem as ages, viewed from within; and in such a reverberating moment Nora felt something that she had believed to be a passion melting from beneath her feet, crumbling and crashing into the gulf on whose edge she stood. But her shame at least should be brief. She rose and bridged this dizzy chasm with some tragic counterfeit of a smile. “I have come—I have come—” She began and faltered. It was a pity some great actress had not been there to note upon the tablets of her art the light, all-eloquent tremor of tone with which she transposed her embarrassment into the petition, “Could you lend me a little money?” Hubert was simply afraid of her. All his falsity, all his levity, all his egotism and sophism, seemed to crowd upon him and accuse him in deafening chorus; he seemed exposed and dishonored. It was with an immense sense of relief that he heard her ask this simple favor. Money? Would money buy his release? He took out his purse and grasped a roll of bills; then suddenly he was overwhelmed by a sense of his cruelty. He flung the thing on the floor, and passed his hands over his face. “Nora, Nora,” he cried, “say it outright; you despise me!” He had become, in the brief space of a moment, the man she once had loved; but if he was no longer the rose, he stood too near it to be wantonly bruised. Men and women alike need in some degree to respect those they have suffered to wrong them. She stooped and picked up the porte-monnaie, like a beggar-maid in a ballad. “A very little will do,” she said. “In a day or two I hope to be independent.” “Tell me at least what has happened!” he cried. She hesitated a moment. “Roger has asked me to be his wife.” Hubert’s head swam with the vision of all that this simple statement embodied and implied. “I refused,” Nora added, “and, having refused, I was unwilling to live any longer on his—on his—” Her speech at the last word melted into silence, and she seemed to fall a-musing. But in an instant she recovered herself. “I remember your once saying that you would have liked to see me poor and homeless. Here I am! You ought at least,” she added with a laugh, “to pay for the exhibition!”