“Oh no; you were not cruel. You have shown me since your return that you regard women as too humble an organisation to be susceptible of great suffering. You are a scientific man, and one of your theories is that the lower in the scheme of creation is any form of life, the less capable it is of suffering. You cleave your worm in twain--there is a little wriggle--no more--each half goes off quite briskly in its own way. You chop off a lizard's tail without causing it any particular inconvenience; I wonder if you think of me as a little better than the worm, a little higher than the lizard. How could any man say words of such cruelty to a woman whom he had once promised to love, if he had not believed her to be dead to all sense of suffering?” She stood before him with her hands clenched and her eyes flashing; but only for a few moments. Then she made a gesture of contempt--she gave a little shudder as she turned away from him. He remained motionless for a brief space, then went without a word to the door. The sound of his fingers on the handle caused her to look round. “Don't go away for a moment,” she said. “You will pardon that tirade of mine, I am sure. I don't know how it was forced from me. I shall not be so foolish again.” “I think I had better go: you are scarcely yourself to-night,” said he. “Scarcely myself? Well, perhaps I am not. I must confess that that outburst of mine surprised me. It will not occur again, I promise you.” “I think I had better leave you.” He still stood at the door. In his voice there was again a tone of reproach. There was some sadness in the little shake of his head, as though he meant to suggest that he was greatly pained at not being able to trust her. His attitude stung her. She became white once more. She put up her hand to her throat. She was making a great effort to calm herself. Still it was some moments before she was able to say: “Very well, very well. Do not come any nearer to me. You came to talk business. Continue. You were about to tell me that you mean to go to London to-morrow in order to get the document that will enable you to marry some one without delay. The name of Claude Westwood will appear at one part of that document. What name is to appear beside yours?” “Why do you ask that?” he said, removing his hand from the handle of the door. “In order to prevent any mistake,” said she. “You have probably sent forward to the proper authorities the name of Clare Tristram.” He was grave. He shook his head sadly, and put his hand upon the lock of the door once again. He somehow suggested that he expected her to tell him that it was not the name of Clare Tristram but of Agnes Mowbray which should by right be or the special licence, beside his name. She took a step toward him, as if she were about to speak angrily; but she checked herself. “There is no such person as Clare Tristram,” she said.