I hate the woman who sent me there. I have no heart, nor any sense of
pity. Now perhaps you can understand my life and the manner of it."
Her hands were clasped to the side of her head. Something of horror
had stolen into the steadfast gaze with which she was still regarding
him. Yet there were other things there which puzzled him.
"This--is terrible!" she murmured. "Then you are not--Mr. Wingrave at
all?"
He hesitated. After all, it was scarcely worth while concealing
anything now.
"I am Sir Wingrave Seton," he said. "You may remember my little
affair!"
She caught hold of his hands.
"You poor, poor dear!" she cried. "How you must have suffered!"
Wingrave had a terrible moment. What he felt he would never have
admitted, even to himself. Her eyes were shining with sympathy, and it
was so unexpected. He had expected something in the nature of a cold
withdrawal; her silence was the only thing he had counted upon. It was
a fierce, but short battle. His sudden grasp of her hands was relaxed.
He stood away from her.
"You are very kind," he said. "As you can doubtless imagine, it is a
little too late for sympathy. The years have gone, and the better part
of me, if ever there was a better part, with them."
"I am not so sure of that!" she whispered.
He looked at her coldly.
"Why not?"
"If you were absolutely heartless," she said, "if you were perfectly
consistent, why did you not make me suffer? You had a great chance! A
little feigned affection, and then a few truths.
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