that if it is not true now, it
will become so, if we only wait."

He shook his head.

"Never," he said, and dropped his hands and walked over to the fire. She
stood where he had left her.

"I understand," she heard him say, "I understand that you sent Mrs.
Simpson five hundred dollars for the hospital. Simpson told me so
yesterday, at the bank."

"I had a little money of my own--from my father and I was glad to do it,
Hugh. That was your mother's charity."

Her self-control was taxed to the utmost by the fact that he was moved.
She could not see his face, but his voice betrayed it.

"And Mrs. Simpson?" he asked, after a moment.

"Mrs. Simpson?"

"She thanked you?"

"She acknowledged the cheque, as president. I was not giving it to her,
but to the hospital."

"Let me see the letter."

"I--I have destroyed it."

He brought his hands together forcibly, and swung about and faced her.

"Damn them!" he cried, "from this day I forbid you to have anything to
do with them, do you hear. I forbid you! They're a set of confounded,
self-righteous hypocrites. Give them time! In all conscience they have
had time enough, and opportunity enough to know what our intentions
are. How long do they expect us to fawn at their feet for a word of
recognition? What have we done that we should be outlawed in this way
by the very people who may thank my family for their prosperity? Where
would Israel Simpson be to-day if my father had not set him up in
business? Without knowing anything of our lives they pretend to sit in
judgment on us. Why? Because you have been divorced, and I married you.
I'll make them pay for this!"

"No!" she begged, taking a step towards him. "You don't know what you're
saying, Hugh. I implore you not to do anything. Wait a little while!
Oh, it is worth trying!" So far the effort carried her, and no farther.
Perhaps, at sight of the relentlessness in his eyes, hope left her, and
she sank down on a chair and buried her face in her hands, her voice
broken by sobs. "It is my fault, and I am justly punished. I have no
right to you--I was wicked, I was selfish to marry you. I have ruined
your life."

He went to her, and lifted her up, but she was like a child whom
passionate weeping has carried beyond the reach of words. He could say
nothing to console her, plead as he might, assume the blame, and swear
eternal fealty. One fearful, supreme fact possessed her, the wreck of
Chiltern breaking against the rocks