“It will make an enormous difference to you. God knows I realise it. But, after all, we shall not starve.” She darted a quick, sidelong glance at him, then, with a shudder, put her hands before her face. “I knew it would be woe and misery,” she said, “whilst we were walking away from that horrible registrar’s office. Oh, God! I wish it had never been!” “It need not be misery. It shan’t be misery, if I can help it.” “You? You have robbed me of my birthright!” “Perhaps your taunt is just, Minna,” he replied, a scornful generosity forgetting that with her had lain considerable initiative in the matter of the marriage. “But it scarcely can mend our happiness.” “Happiness!” she echoed, contemptuously. “A poky little house, and rechauffés dinners, and a cheap gown once a year. The gingerbread would have been pretty enough ten months ago. Now the gilt is off.” With great patience, knowing that on him, the man, the stronger, the more rational, the less in love of the two, rested the responsibility of the disaster, he strove to reassure her, to paint their coming life together in the most cheerful colours. Grand style of living he could not offer her. But comfort, a certain social position, clever and bright society--all that was within his reach. He had done her a wrong in marrying her, would repair it by devoting the rest of his life to her happiness. He pleaded to a hardened heart. She either listened stonily or broke into petulant recriminations. The talk grew spasmodic, interrupted by long gaps of silence. Imperceptibly the night wore on. Once he noticed that she had fallen info a weary doze. He watched for a long time her face, lit up by the flickering flames. How hard and common and sullen it had grown! He read in it the history of the last few months--of her previous life--of her soul. A revulsion of feeling turned his heart against her and against himself. The man with ambitions and wide interests in the world of action revolted against the slavery to such a woman. There was little use in staying longer. He rose to go. His movement startled her, and she opened her eyes. “Don’t go yet. I am not asleep. I have been thinking.” He sat down again, watched her as she looked into the fire with eyes that in the fantastic light seemed haggard, and waited for her to speak. “I cannot forfeit my money,” she said. “It would kill me. Even if I loved you I couldn’t do it. And you have made me hate you. Our living together as you propose would be a ghastly mockery. I could not share the same room with you any more,” she continued, hurriedly, “not for millions!” “I should not desire it,” he replied, coldly. “Then why should we not keep our secret--as we have kept it--and part now, for ever and ever?” She turned eager, imploring eyes upon him, yet hard as agates. “I don’t quite understand,” he said. “It is not difficult. You have told no one of our marriage?” “Not a soul.”