“That is not all,” says Tita in a low tone.

“I know—­about Hescott.  I beg your pardon about that.  I was mad, I think; but the madness arose out of jealousy.  I could not bear to think you were happy with him, unhappy with me.  If I had loved another, would I have cared with whom you were happy?”

“I don’t know,” says Tita.

There is something so forlorn in the sad little answer—­something so forlorn in her whole attitude, indeed—­the droop of her head, the sorrowful clasping of her small hands before her—­that Rylton’s heart burns within him.

“Be just—­be just to me,” cries he; “give me a chance.  I confess I married you for your money.  But now that accursed money is all gone (for which I thank heaven), and our positions are reversed.  The money now is mine, and I come to you, and fling it at your feet, and implore you from my very soul to forgive me, and take me back.”

She still remains silent, and her silence cuts him to the heart.

“What can I say?  What can I do to move you?” exclaims he, in a low tone, but one that trembles.  “Is your heart dead to me?  Have I killed any hope that might have been mine?  Is it too late in the day to call myself your lover?”

At this she lifts her hands and covers her face.  All at once he knows that she is crying.  He goes to her quickly, and lays his arm round her shoulder.

“Let me begin again,” says he.  “Trust me once more.  I know well, Tita, that you do not love me yet, but perhaps in time you will forgive me, and take me to your heart.  I am sorry, darling, for every angry word I have ever said to you, but in every one of those angry words there was love for you, and you alone.  I thought only of you, only I did not know it.  Tita, say you will begin life again with me.”

“I—­I couldn’t go to The Place,” says Tita.  A shudder shakes her frame.  “It was there I first heard——­ It was there your mother told me of——­”

“I know—­I know; and I don’t ask you to go there.  I think I told you I had bought a new place.  Come there with me.”

“Why do you want me to go with you,” asks she, lifting her mournful eyes to his, “when you know I do not love you?”

“Yes; I know that.”  He pauses.  “I ask you for many reasons, and not all selfish ones.  I ask you for your own sake more than all.  The world is cruel, Tita, to a woman who deliberately lives away from her husband; and, besides——­”

“I don’t care about the world.”

“We all care about the world sooner or later, and, besides, you who have been accustomed to money all your life cannot find your present income sufficient for you, and Margaret may marry.”

“Oh yes!  Yes; I think so.”  For the first time she shows some animation.  “I hope so.  You saw them talking together to-day?”

“I did.”  There is a slight pause, and then:  “You are glad for Margaret.  You wish everyone”—­reproachfully—­“to be happy except me.”