they were getting upon dangerous ground. It was now, he thought, that he must speak as an honest man.
But he did not speak, and she continued: "It was that which made me write and say—I didn't mind your loving me—if you wanted to, much!"
The exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to imply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested rigid till he began: "I have never told you—"
"Yes, you have," murmured she.
"I mean, I have never told you my history—all of it."
"But I guess it. I know nearly."
Jude looked up. Could she possibly know of that morning performance of his with Arabella, which in a few months had ceased to be a marriage more completely than by death? He saw that she did not.
"I can't quite tell you here in the street," he went on, with a gloomy tongue. And you had better not come to my lodgings. Let us go in here."
The building by which they stood was the market-house; it was the only place available; and they entered the market being over, and the stalls and areas empty. He would have preferred a more congenial spot, but, as usually happens, in place of a romantic field or solemn aisle for his tale, it was told while they walked up and down over a floor littered with rotten cabbage-leaves, and amid all the usual squalors of decayed vegetable matter and unsaleable refuse. He began and finished his brief narrative, which merely led up to the information that he had married a wife some years earlier, and that his wife was living still. Almost before her countenance had time to change she hurried out the words.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I couldn't. It seemed so cruel to tell it."
"To yourself, Jude. So it was better to be cruel to me!"
"No, dear darling!" cried Jude, passionately. He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it. Their old rela-
