Under the weight of that thought, that dreadful thought, he had grown old in a few minutes.

His tone was hard, his manner pitiless.

"You never loved him!" he repeated, the very immodesty of her excuse confirming his fears.

"And I ask you, what is it?
What is it that is between you and him?
What is it that gives him this power over you ?" "Nothing," she stammered, pale to the lips.
"Nothing! And was it for nothing that you were startled when you found me upstairs?
When you found me watching you five minutes ago, was it for nothing that you flamed with rage----" "You had no right to be there." "No?
Yet it was an innocent thing enough--to be there," he answered.

"To be there, this morning." And then, giving the words all the meaning of which his voice was capable, "To have been there last night," he continued, "were a different thing perhaps." "Were you there ?" Her voice was barely audible.
"I was." It was dreadful to see how she sank under that, how she cringed before him, her anger gone, her colour gone, the light fled from her eyes--eyes grown suddenly secretive.