ter a moment.

'Thank you; perhaps we both are fortunate.'

Once more there was a long silence and then, suddenly, Gerald flung
away, thrusting his hands in his pockets and stopping before the window,
his back turned to her. 'I can't stand this,' he declared.

'What can't you stand?'

'You don't love this man. He doesn't love you.'

'What is that to you?' asked Helen.

'I can't think it of you; I can't bear to think it.'

'What is it to you?' she repeated, in a deadened voice.

'Why do you say that?' he took her up with controlled fury. 'How
couldn't it but be a great deal to me? Haven't you been a great
deal--for all our lives nearly? Do you mean that you're going to kick
me out completely--because you are going to marry? What does it mean to
me? I wish it could mean something to you of what it does to me. To give
yourself--you--you--to a man who doesn't love you--whom you don't
love--for money. Oh, I know we've always talked of that sort of thing as
if it were possible--and perhaps it is--for a man. But when it comes to
a woman--a woman one has cared for--looked up to--as I have to you--it's
a different matter. One expects a different standard.'

'What standard do you expect from me?' asked Helen. There were tears,
but tears of rage, in her voice.

'You know,' said Gerald, who also was struggling with an emotion that,
rising, overcame his control, 'you know what I think of you--what I
expect of you. A great match--a great man--something fitting for
you--one could accept that; but this little American nonentity, this
little American--barely a gentleman--whom you'd never have looked at if
he hadn't money--a man who will make you ridiculous, a man who can't
have a thought or feeling in common with you--it's not fit--it's not
worthy; it smirches you; it's debasing.'

He had not turned to look at her while he spoke, perhaps did not dare to
look. He knew that his anger, his more than anger, had no warrant, and
that the words in which it cloaked itself--though he believed in all he
said--were unjustifiable. But it was more than anger, and it must speak,
must plead, must protest. He had no right to say these things, perhaps,
but Helen should understand the more beneath, should understand that he
was lost, bewildered, miserable; if Helen did not understand, what was
to become of him? And now she stood there behind him, not speaking, not
answering him, so that he was almost frightened and murmured on, half
inaudibl