much indeed. At this moment, perhaps even more than for Addie . . . I'm not quite sure. A time may come . . . may come, when I shall care for you even more . . . certainly more than for Addie."
"Oh," he cried, "but then . . ."
"Don't speak," she said. "Listen to me. What you're asking of me . . . I refuse."
'Why?"
"Because I am an honest woman. . . . Because I am naturally an honest woman. . . . Because I always mean to be an honest woman. . . . I could never do what you ask me to. . . . Because, even if I had to say good-bye to my husband, I should never, never be willing to say good-bye to my children."
"You love your children better?"
"Better? I love them in a way which a man like you simply cannot understand."
"Tilly! Tilly!"
"Be quiet! . . . There are people coming. . . . Be quiet!"
"Oh, Tilly, what then?"
"I don't know," she said, dully. "Oh, come along to the club; we'll play some tennis!"
She quickened her pace; he followed her, lurching like a drunken man.
