into his face, so that his
cheeks burned with the touch of them. The moments stood before him in
their turn; each one was distinct. "Ah, well," said Mr. Roy, "perhaps I
interrupt,--I 'll just dash off my note" Benyon knew that he was rather
bewildered, that he was making a pretext, that he was leaving the room;
knew presently that Georgina again stood before him alone.

"You are exactly the man I thought you!" she announced, as joyously as
if she had won a bet.

"You are the most horrible woman I can imagine. Good God! if I _had_ had
to live with you!" That is what he said to her in answer.

Even at this she never flushed; she continued to smile in triumph. "He
adores me--but what's that to you? Of course you have all the future,"
she went on; "but I know you as if I had made you!"

Benyon reflected a moment "If he adores you, you are all right. If
our divorce is pronounced, you will be free, and then he can marry you
properly, which he would like ever so much better."

"It's too touching to hear you reason about it. Fancy me telling such a
hideous story--about myself--me--_me_!" And she touched her breasts with
her white fingers.

Benyon gave her a look that was charged with all the sickness of his
helpless rage. "You--_you_!" he repeated, as he turned away from her and
passed through the door which Mr. Roy had left open.

She followed him into the hall, she was close behind him; he moved
before her as she pressed. "There was one more reason," she said. "I
would n't be forbidden. It was my hideous pride. That's what prevents me
now."

"I don't care what it is," Benyon answered, wearily, with his hand on
the knob of the door.

She laid hers on his shoulder; he stood there an instant feeling it,
wishing that her loathsome touch gave him the right to strike her to the
earth,--to strike her so that she should never rise again.

"How clever you are, and intelligent always,--as you used to be; to
feel so perfectly and know so well, without more scenes, that it's
hopeless--my ever consenting! If I have, with you, the shame of having
made you promise, let me at least have the profit!"

His back had been turned to her, but at this he glanced round. "To hear
you talk of shame--!"

"You don't know what I have gone through; but, of course, I don't ask
any pity from you. Only I should like to say something kind to you
before we part I admire you, esteem you: I don't many people! Who will
ever tell her, if you don't?