"They had no right, I made it a stipulation--"
"They didn't realise, they thought because we were married that I must surely know. I couldn't go on living in the flat, taking the allowance you heaped on me. All you gave,--all you did--your generosity--I couldn't bear it! Oh, can't you see--your money choked me!" she wailed, with a paroxysm of tears that frightened him. He caught her hands again, holding them firmly. "Your money as much as mine, Gillian. I have always tried to make you realise it. What is mine is yours. You're my wife--"
"I'm not, I'm not," she sobbed wildly. "I'm only a burden thrust on you."
A cry burst from his lips. "A burden, my God, a burden!" he groaned. And suddenly he reached the end of his endurance. With the agony of death in his eyes he swept her into his arms, holding her to him with passionate strength, his lips buried in the fragrance of her hair. "Oh, my dear, my dear," he murmured brokenly, "I'm not fit to touch you, but I've loved you always, worshipped you, longed for you until the longing grew too great to bear, and I left you because I knew that if I stayed I should not have the strength to leave you free. I married you because I loved you, because even this damnable mockery of a marriage was better than losing you out of my life--I was cur enough to keep you when I knew I might not take you. And I've wanted you, God knows how I've wanted you, all these ghastly years. I want you now, I'd give my hope of heaven to have your love, to hold you in my arms as my wife, to be a husband to you not only in name--but I'm not fit. You don't know what I've done--what I've been. I had no right to marry you, to stain your purity with my sin, to link you with one who is fouled as I am. If you knew you'd never look at me again." With a terrible sob he laid her back on the pillows and dropped on his knees beside her. Into her tear-wet eyes there came suddenly a light that was almost divine, her quivering face became glorious in its pitiful love. Trembling, she leant towards him, and her slender hands went out in swift compassion, drawing the bowed shamed head close to her tender breast.
"Tell me," she whispered. And with her soft arms round him he told her, waiting in despair for the moment when she would shrink from him, repel him with the horror and disgust he dreaded. But she lay quite still until he finished, though once or twice she shuddered and he felt the quickened beating of her heart. And for long after his muffled voice had died away she remained silent. Then her thin hand crept quiveringly up to his hair, touching it shyly, and two great tears rolled down her face. "Barry, I've been so lonely"--it was the cry of a frightened desolate child--"if you have no pity on yourself, will you have no pity on me?"