"I know."
"Oh, Dr. Lavendar, it is so horrible! When I began to understand, it
seemed like something broken--broken--broken! It could never be
mended."
"No."
...Sometimes, as she went on he asked a question, and sometimes made a
comment. The comment was always the same: when she spoke of marrying
Frederick to get away from her bleak life with her grandmother, she
said, "Oh, it was a mistake, a mistake!"
And he said, "It was a sin."
And again: "I thought Lloyd would make me happy; I just went to be
happy; that was my second mistake."
"It was your second sin."
"You think I am a sinner," she said; "oh, Dr. Lavendar, I am not as
bad as you think! I always expected to marry Lloyd. I am not like a--
fallen woman."
"Why not?" said Dr. Lavendar.
She shrank back with a gesture of dismay. "I always expected to marry
him!"
"It would have been just the same if you had married him."
"I don't understand you," she said faintly.
"From the beginning," he said, "you have thought only of self. You
would not have been redeemed from self by gaining what would have made
you more satisfied with yourself."
She thought about this for a few minutes in a heavy silence. "You
mean, getting married would not have changed things, really?"
"It would have made the life you were living less harmful to your
fellow creatures, perhaps; but it would have made no difference
between you two."
"I thought I would be happier," she said.
"Happier!" said Dr. Lavendar; "what sort of happiness could there be
in a marriage where the man could never respect the woman, and the
woman could never trust the man!"
"I hadn't thought of it that way," she said slowly. And then she began
again. ... Once Dr. Lavendar interrupted her to light the lamp, for
the study was dark except for the wink of red coals in the grate; and
once he checked her, and went into the dining-room to bring her a
glass of wine and some food. She protested, but he had his way, and
she ate and drank before going on with her story. When she told him,
brokenly, of Sam Wright, Dr. Lavendar got up and walked the length of
the study. But he made no comment--none was needed. When she ended,
there was a long pause. Suddenly she clasped her hands on the top of
her head, and bowed her forehead almost to her knees. She seemed to
speak as if to herself: "Not worthy; not worthy."... Then aloud; "I give him up," she
said. And stretched out empty arms.