ay, my dear," says I; "'tis t'other way about. For if your husband
does forgive you, and yearns but to take you back into his arms, it
would be an unnatural, cruel thing to keep you apart. Therefore, to
confess the whole truth, I did meditate going to him and showing how we
and not you are to blame in this matter, and then telling him where he
might find you, if on reflection he felt that he could honestly hold you
guiltless. But ere I do that (as I see now), I must know if you are
willing to this accommodation; for if you are not, then are our wounds
all opened afresh to no purpose, but to retard their healing."

She made no reply nor any comment for a long time, nor did I seek to
bias her judgment by a single word (doubting my wisdom). But I perceived
by the quivering of her arm within mine that a terrible conflict 'twixt
passion and principle was convulsing every fibre of her being. At the
top of the hill above Greenwich she stopped, and, throwing back her
hood, let the keen wind blow upon her face, as she gazed over the grey
flats beyond the river. And the air seeming to give her strength and a
clearer perception, she says, presently:

"Accommodation!" (And she repeats this unlucky word of mine twice or
thrice, as if she liked it less each time.) "That means we shall agree
to let bygones be bygones, and do our best to get along together for the
rest of our lives as easily as we may."

"That's it, my dear," says I, cheerfully.

"Hush up the past," continues she, in the same calculating tone;
"conceal it from the world, if possible. Invent some new lie to deceive
the curious, and hoodwink our decent friends. Chuckle at our success,
and come in time" (here she paused a moment) "to 'chat so lightly of our
past knavery, that we could wish we had gone farther in the business.'"
Then turning about to me, she asks: "If you were writing the story of my
life for a play, would you end it thus?"

"My dear," says I, "a play's one thing, real life's another; and believe
me, as far as my experience goes of real life, the less heroics there
are in it the better parts are those for the actors in't."

She shook her head fiercely in the wind, and, turning about with a
brusque vigour, cries, "Come on. I'll have no accommodation. And yet,"
says she, stopping short after a couple of hasty steps, and with a
fervent earnestness in her voice, "and yet, if I could wipe out this
stain, if by any act I could redeem my fault, God knows, I'