ong as her
child was left to her she was in no danger of falling a victim to
sentimental troubles.

'And certainly I can't believe it,' he continued, 'now you declare your
wish to be formally separated from me.'

'I have declared no such wish.'

'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning to me
when difficulties are at an end, that tells me you would prefer final
separation.'

'I hesitate for this reason,' Amy said after reflecting. 'You are so
very greatly changed from what you used to be, that I think it doubtful
if I could live with you.'

'Changed?--Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think this
change will affect my behaviour to you?'

'Remember how you have been speaking to me.'

'And you think I should treat you brutally if you came into my power?'

'Not brutally, in the ordinary sense of the word. But with faults of
temper which I couldn't bear. I have my own faults. I can't behave as
meekly as some women can.'

It was a small concession, but Reardon made much of it.

'Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first year of
our married life?' he asked gently.

'No,' she admitted.

'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by difficulties
that I needed all your sympathy, all your forbearance. Did I receive
much of either from you, Amy?'

'I think you did--until you demanded impossible things of me.'

'It was always in your power to rule me. What pained me worst, and
hardened me against you, was that I saw you didn't care to exert your
influence. There was never a time when I could have resisted a word of
yours spoken out of your love for me. But even then, I am afraid, you no
longer loved me, and now--'

He broke off, and stood watching her face.

'Have you any love for me left?' burst from his lips, as if the words
all but choked him in the utterance.

Amy tried to shape some evasive answer, but could say nothing.

'Is there ever so small a hope that I might win some love from you
again?'

'If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon I will
do so.'

'But that is not answering me, Amy.'

'It's all I can say.'

'Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out of--what? Out of
pity for me, let us say.'

'Do you wish to see Willie?' asked Amy, instead of replying.

'No. It is you I have come to see. The child is nothing to me, compared
with you. It is you, who loved me, who became my wife--you only I care