in talking about the matter. We
are only giving ourselves useless pain."

There was a short silence. Mrs. Romaine drew her veil more tightly round
her face, and seemed to deliberate. Caspar threw a longing glance--which
she intercepted--towards the door.

"Men are such cowards," she said at last, in a low and bitter tone. "I
have proved _that_ in every way: I ought to be prepared for
cowardice--even from you. They want to slip out of every unpleasant
position, and leave some woman to bear the brunt of it. You, for
instance, want to go now, this minute, because I have said one or two
things that pain you. You don't care enough for what I think to make you
wish to alter my opinion--to fight it out and conquer me; you only want
to get away and leave me to 'cool down,' as you would call it. You are
mistaken. I am not speaking from any momentary irritation: what I say to
you to-day is the result of long thought, long consideration, long
patience. It would be better for you to have the courage and the
manliness to listen to me."

"You talk in a very extraordinary way, Rosalind,", said Caspar. "I do
not understand it, and I fail to see its justice towards me. I have
never refused to listen to you, have I? As for cowardice--it seemed to
me that you were trying to persuade me to do a very cowardly thing just
now; but perhaps I was mistaken. I will hear all that you have to say:
if I was anxious to go, it was only that I might save you from tiring or
hurting yourself."

"It matters so much whether I am tired or hurt, does it not?" she said,
with the faintest possible flicker of a smile on her white lips. "That
is what you all think of--whether one suffers--suffers physically. It is
my soul that is hurt, my heart that is tired--but you don't concern
yourself with that sort of thing."

"I assure you that I am very sorry----," he began, and then he stopped
short. She had made it very difficult for him to say anything so
commonplace, and yet so true.

"If you are sorry," she said, in a softer tone, "and if you want to make
me happier--_save yourself_."

"No," said Caspar, roughly--almost violently--"by Heaven, I won't do
that."

"You don't wish to save yourself?"

"Not at that price--the price of my honor."

"Listen to me," she said, drawing nearer to him and speaking very
softly. "I have made it my business during the last day or two--when I
gathered that you would be let out on bail--to collect all the
information th