"Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I am glad to leave people."
She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to pray to him.
"Is it true—is it true?" she asked.
"True that you have been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph, with a sensible intention of wit.
"That you made me rich—that all I have is yours?"
He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last "Ah, don't speak of that—that was not happy." Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that—but for that—" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he added softly.
She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure anguish—the knowledge that they were looking at the truth together.
"He married me for my money," she said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before she had done so.
He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then—
"He was greatly in love with you," he answered.
"Yes, he was in love with me. But he would not have married me if I had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's all over."
"I always understood," said Ralph.
