t myself," she said at last. "I didn't mean to,
for I need no justification. When you said that you wanted to say
something, I brought you here so that we could be alone. What was it? I
should have let you speak first."

"It was this." He paused, as though choosing his words. "Well, I don't
know," he continued presently. "You've been saying a good many things
about me that I would have said myself. I've not denied them, have I?
Well, it's this. I wanted to see you for years, and now we've met. We
may not meet again, Lucy, though I dare say we may live a long time. I
wish we could, though. But of course you don't care to see me. I was
your husband once, and I behaved like a brute to you. You wouldn't want
me for a friend now that I am old."

He waited, but she said nothing.

"Of course you wouldn't," he continued. "I shouldn't, in your place. Oh,
I know! If I were dying or starving, or very unhappy, you would be
capable of doing anything for me, out of sheer goodness. You're only
just to people who aren't suffering. You were always like that in the
old days. It's so much the worse for us. I have nothing about me to
excite your pity. I'm strong, I'm well, I'm very rich, I'm relatively
happy. I don't know how much I cared for my wife when I married her, but
she has been a good wife, and I'm very fond of her now, in my own way.
It wasn't a good action, I admit, to marry her at all. She was the
beauty of her year and the best match of the season, and I was just
divorced, and every one's hand was against me. I thought I would show
them what I could do, winged as I was, and I got her. No; it wasn't a
thing to be proud of. But somehow we hit it off, and she stuck to me,
and I grew fond of her because she did, and here we are as you see us,
and Brook is a fine fellow, and likes me. I like him too. He's honest
and faithful, like his mother. There's no justice and no logic in this
world, Lucy. I was a good-for-nothing in the old days. Circumstances
have made me decently good, and a pretty happy man besides, as men go. I
couldn't ask for any pity if I tried."

"No; you're not to be pitied. I'm glad you're happy. I don't wish you
any harm."

"You might, and I shouldn't blame you. But all that isn't what I wished
to say. I'm getting old, and we may not meet any more after this. If
you wish me to go away, I'll go. We'll leave the place tomorrow."

"No. Why should you? It's a strange situation, as we were to-day at
table. You wi