“Then, in such case—­”

“In such case any woman would hate a man.  Stress may win some women, but deceit never did.”

“I have not deceived you.”

“Do you wish to do so now?”

“No.  It’s just the contrary.  Haven’t I said you must go?  But since you must go, and since I must pay, I’m willing, if you wish, to bare my life to the very bone, to the heart before you, now—­right now.”

She pondered for a moment.  “Of course, I knew there was something.  There, in that room—­in that wardrobe—­those were her garments—­of another—­another woman.  Who?”

“Wait, now.  Go slow, because I’m suffering.  Listen.  I’ll not hear a word about your own life—­I want no secret of you.  I’m content.  But I’m willing now, I say, to tell you all about that—­about those things.

“I didn’t do that at first, but how could I?  There wasn’t any chance.  Besides, when I saw you, the rest of the world, the rest of my life, it was all, all wiped out of my mind, as though some drug had done it.  You came, you were so sweet, my lack was so horrible, that I took you into my soul, a drug, a balm, an influence, a wonderful thing.

“Oh, I’m awake now!  But I reckon maybe that doesn’t mean that I’m getting out of my dream, but only into it, deeper yet.  I was mad for you then.  I could feel the blood sting in my veins, for you.  Life is life after all, and we’re made as we are.  But later, now, beside that, on top of that, something else—­do you think it’s—­do you suppose I’m capable of it, selfish as I am?  Do you reckon it’s love, just big, worthy, decent love, better than anything in the world?  Is that—­do you reckon, dear girl, that that’s why I’m able now to say good-by?  I loved you once so much I could not let you go.  Now I love so much I can not let you stay!  I reckon this is love.  I’m not ashamed to tell it.  I’m not afraid to justify it.  And I can’t help it.”

It was any sort of time, a moment, an hour, before there was spoken speech between them after that.  At last they both heard her voice.

“Now, you begin to pay.  I am glad.  I am glad.”

“Then it is your revenge?  Very well.  You have it.”

“No, no!  You must not say that.  Believe me, I want you to feel how—­how much I admire—­no, wait,—­how much I admire any man who could show your courage.  It’s not revenge, it’s not vanity—­”

He waited, his soul in his eyes, hoping for more than this; but she fell silent again.

“Then it is the end,” he said.

He held up his fingers, scarred to the bone.