How could she know now that this hasty declaration of affection was
anything more than the mere man in him? Years ago she had not been able
to judge between love and insult--what guarantee had she here? Did he
think that she could believe in him? She was not the woman he had
married, he was not the man she had married. He had deceived her basely
--she had been a common chattel. She had been miserable enough--could
she give herself over to his flying emotions again so suddenly?
She paced the room, her face now in her hands, her hands now clasping and
wringing before her. Her wifely duty? She straightened to that. Duty!
She was first and before all a good, unpolluted woman. No, no, it could
not be. Love him? Again she shrank. Then came flooding on her that
afternoon when she had flung herself on Richard's breast, and all those
hundred days of happiness in Richard's company--Richard the considerate,
the strong, who had stood so by his honour in an hour of peril.
Now as she thought of it a hot wave shivered through all her body, and
tingled to her hair.
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