“Oh, don’t re-open that,” she said. “All that was killed for ever--at Brighton--in December. And even if it wasn’t, do you think I could willingly give up two hundred thousand pounds for you?” She laughed scornfully. “You indeed set a high value upon yourself. Do you know,” she added with a sudden firmness, to which the deep tones of her voice gave a savage intensity, “I would commit any crime rather than give up that money? All such talk is useless. Let me have your final answer and be done with it.” “Very well,” he replied, decisively. “I will grant you your absolute freedom on one condition: that this compact between us is irrevocable.” “It shall be. Will you swear to it, on your side--a solemn, binding oath?” “I give you my word of honour.” “I don’t much believe in a man’s honour,” she said, contemptuously. “An oath is different.” “I will do as you like,” he replied. She rose, vanished for a moment among the shadows of the room, and returned with an Old Testament. “I swear on this, by the God of my fathers, that in no circumstances whatever will I reveal the fact of my marriage with you. I renounce you for ever as my husband. I renounce all claims upon your support, sympathy, and consideration. I swear never to interfere in any shape or form with your actions, leaving you free to marry again without any previous notification to me. So help me God.” She stood deadly pale, her teeth chattering, worn out by the stiffness and exhaustion of her long vigil, and handed him the book that she held in shaking fingers. “Since you desire a formal oath,” he said, “I will take it in the form you have prescribed.” And there he renounced her eternally as she had just before renounced him. He looked at his watch. To his utter astonishment it was past six o’clock. With an exclamation of dismay, he set about preparing for departure. How the night had passed so quickly he could not tell. “There is no need for you to keep these any longer,” he said, holding up the slippers. She herself had worked them for him in a fit of adoring industry. “No. Nor the other things.” She took a small bundle neatly wrapped up in brown paper and handed it to him. He thrust it beneath his arm. “Good-bye, Minna,” he said, holding out his hand. “We did not swear to be enemies. May your new life be happier than the old.” “It could not well be more miserable,” she answered. But she gave him her hand, cold and nerveless. “Poor child,” he said, “God help you.” He turned, left the room, and then the house by the way by which he had entered. A fine snow was falling through the not yet lifting darkness. He hurried homewards blindly, thinking of nothing but the strange chapter of the night, his heart relieved already of enormous burdens, but his temples throbbing with the strain of casting them off.