sat in her London room,
telling him the terrible tale of her married life, while her eyes were
fixed on his and her head was resting on her hands. Even then, at that
moment, she was asking herself whether he believed her story, or
whether, within his breast, he was saying that she was vile and false.
She knew that she had been false to him, and that he must have despised
her when, with her easy philosophy, she had made the best of her own
mercenary perfidy. He had called her a jilt to her face, and she had
been able to receive the accusation with a smile. Would he now call her
something worse, and in a louder voice, within his own bosom? And if she
could convince him that to that accusation she was not fairly subject,
might the old thing come back again? Would he walk with her again, and
look into her eyes as though he only wanted her commands to show himself
ready to be her slave? She was a widow, and had seen many things, but
even now she had not reached her six-and-twentieth year.

The apples at her rich country-seat had quickly become ashes between her
teeth, but something of the juice of the fruit might yet reach her
palate if he would come and sit with her at the table. As she complained
to herself of the coldness of the world, she thought that she would not
care how cold might be all the world if there might be but one whom she
could love, and who would love her. And him she had loved. To him, in
old days--in days which now seemed to her to be very old--she had made
confession of her love. Old as were those days, it could not be but he
should still remember them. She had loved him, and him only. To none
other had she ever pretended love. From none other had love been offered
to her. Between her and that wretched being to whom she had sold
herself, who had been half dead before she had seen him, there had been
no pretence of love. But Harry Clavering she had loved. Harry Clavering
was a man, with all those qualities which she valued, and also with
those foibles which saved him from being too perfect for so slight a
creature as herself. Harry had been offended to the quick, and had
called her a jilt; but yet it might be possible that he would return to
her.

It should not be supposed that since her return to England she had had
one settled, definite object before her eyes with regard to this renewal
of her love. There had been times in which she had thought that she
would go on with the life which she had prepared