“No, Hugo, it is reasonable.  That is what I say.  I am unreasonable.  I don’t seem able to help it to-day.”

And Hugo, with the last remnant of his unconquerable incredulities, for the twentieth time mentioned another day.  A post-mortem flicker of reargument started:  started, but went out, quickly extinguished by the perilous fascination of the personal.  Unspoken thoughts pressed in upon them as they circled, lifelessly reiterating.  These thoughts grew rapidly louder; and Canning, striving to keep his bitter hostility from his tone, gave voice: 

“Of course the truth is—­though I am sure you don’t realize it yourself—­this man has somehow got you under his influence ...  A sort of moral hypnosis ... to compel you to do what is against your nature ... and will bring you great harm.”

At what conceivable point had the grounds of discussion become so completely metamorphosed?

“No, that isn’t true.  I’m not doing—­”

“I suggest that in your interest ...  Otherwise I should be unable to account for the predominant part you have allowed him to play in this.”

“And yet, Hugo, he was right in saying that I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t tell the truth.  And you don’t understand that even now.”

“I fear I’ve always been dull at these camp-meeting metaphors.”

Now they had struck the greased road, and easy was the descent to Avernus.  Carlisle said, all weakness gone from her: 

“Well, I don’t ask you to understand any more.  You feel that I’m not the same girl—­”

“I didn’t say that!  I asked ... if you had the right—­now—­to make yourself a—­different girl.  By that—­”

“I’m afraid I’ve already made myself a different girl from what you thought.  You knew that when mamma told you what I had done....”

Why couldn’t he say that he wanted her twenty times over, no matter what she had done?  It would have been easy to say that half an hour ago.  Canning’s reply was:  “I’ve said again and again that you’ve done nothing.  All this malicious scandal cannot touch you unless you yourself wilfully start it.”

“You seem to care less about what I am, than about what people might think I am.  And yet,” she added, her hand upon her heart and her breath coming quicker and quicker, “you wonder that I let somebody else tell me what I am.”

The deliberate reference to the revivalist fellow stung Canning like the flick of a glove in his face.

“Dr. Vivian?  He has not my disadvantage of laboring to save his affianced’s name from everlasting disgrace.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t find disgrace where you seem to look for it.”

“It is cheap to be prodigal with other men’s belongings.  What is this man to you?”

“Hugo!—­Hugo!” broke from her.  “I can’t bear this!...  You must leave me.”

“If I go,” said Canning, trembling, “I do not return.”

“It is what I wish,” said Carlisle.