ow I understand it. I'm sure I understand it. And I think the depth of
a shame is very often the exact measure of the depth of a love. Perhaps,
indeed, there is no more exact measure."

Again he thought of the episode with Vere, and of his determination
always from henceforth to be absolutely sincere with himself and with
those whom he really loved.

"I am sure there is no more exact measure. Hermione, it is very
difficult, I think, to realize what any human being is, to judge any
one quite accurately. Some judge a nature by the distance it can sink,
others by the distance it can rise. Which do you do? Do you judge
Delarey by his act of faithlessness? And, if you do, how would you judge
me?"

"You!"

There was a sound of wonder in her voice.

"Yes. You say I am an egoist. And this that I am saying will seem to you
egoism. It is egoism, I suppose. But I want to know--I must know. How
would you judge me? How do you judge me?"

She was silent.

"How are you judging me at this moment? Aren't you judging me by the
distance I fall, the distance, perhaps, you think I have fallen?"

He spoke slowly. He was delaying. For all the time he spoke he was
secretly battling with his pride--and his pride was a strong fighter.
But to-night his passion for sincerity, his instinct that for
Hermione--and for him, too--salvation lay in their perfect, even in
their cruel sincerity to themselves and to each other, was a strong
fighter also. In it his pride met an antagonist that was worthy of it.
And he went on:

"Are you judging me by this summer?"

He paused.

"Go on," she said.

He could not tell by her voice what she was feeling, thinking.
Expression seemed to be withdrawn from it, perhaps deliberately.

"This summer something has come between us, a cloud has come between us.
I scarcely know when I first noticed it, when it came. But I have felt
it, and you have felt it."

"Yes."

"It might, perhaps, have arisen from the fact of my suspicion who Ruffo
was, a suspicion that lately became a certainty. My suspicion, and
latterly my knowledge, no doubt changed my manner--made me anxious,
perhaps, uneasy, made me watchful, made me often seem very strange to
you. That alone might have caused a difference in our relations. But I
think there was something else."

"Yes, there was something else."

"And I think, I feel sure now, that it was something to do with Vere.
I was, I became deeply interested in Vere--interested in a