THE TOUCHSTONE
"Haven't you had enough—without that?" she said in a strange voice of pity.
He stared at her. "Enough—?"
"Of misery. . ."
An iron band seemed loosened from his temples. "You saw then . . ?" he whispered.
"Oh, God—oh, God—" she sobbed. She dropped beside him and hid her anguish against his knees. They clung thus in silence a long time, driven together down the same fierce blast of shame.
When at length she lifted her face he averted his. Her scorn would have hurt him less than the tears on his hands.
She spoke languidly, like a child emerging from a passion of weeping. "It was for the money—?"
His lips shaped an assent.
"That was the inheritance—that we married on?"
"Yes."
She drew back and rose to her feet. He sat watching her as she wandered away from him.
"You hate me," broke from him.
She made no answer.
[ 143 ]
