ed at her long and deliberately. He seemed to weigh something in
his mind, to ask whether he should or should not say something.

"And you conclude that the sort of person I am isn't fit to live with?"
he asked at last.

"I've told you what I've made up my mind to do. I can't help whether you
stay or go too. But I'm going away from here, and going alone."

"Because I'm that sort of person?"

"Yes. If you like to put it that way, yes."

"Very well. But before you go, a word about you! Sit down, please." She
obeyed his rather imperative gesture. "I've been meek," he smiled. "I've
admitted all you said about me. And now, please, a word about you!"

"About me? What is there to say about me? Oh, you're going back to that
old story about my pride again!"

Once more he looked long at her face. It was flushed and rebellious, it
gave no hint of yielding to any weapon that he had yet employed.

"I'm not going to speak of your pride, but of your incredible meanness,"
said he.

"What?" cried Cecily, rudely startled and sitting bolt upright.

"There's no harm in plain speaking, since we're going to part. Of your
extraordinary meanness, Cecily--and really it's not generally a fault of
the Tristrams."

"Perhaps you'll explain yourself," she said, relapsing into cold
disdain, and leaning back again.

"I will. I mean to. Just look at the history of the whole affair." He
rose and stood opposite her, constraining her to look at him, although
her attitude professed a lofty indifference. "Here was I--in possession!
I was safe. I knew I was safe. I was as convinced of my safety as I am
even now--when it's beyond question. Was I frightened? Ask Mina, ask
Duplay. Then you came. You know what I did. For your sake, because you
were what you are, because I had begun to love you--yes, that's the
truth of it--I gave it all to you. Not this place only, but all I had.
Even my name--even my right to bear any name. Nobody and nameless, I
went out of this house for you."

He paused a little, took a pace on the grass, and returned to her.

"What ought you to have felt, what ought you to have prayed then?" he
asked. "Surely that it should come back to me, that it should be mine
again?"

"I did," she protested, stirred to self-defence. "I was miserable. You
know I was. I couldn't stay here for the thought of you. I came to
London. I came to you, Harry. I offered it to you."

"It's you who are deceiving yourself now. Yes, you came and off