and he had lost pretty well all he had got."
"And you left him?"
A smile curled the corners of her mouth.
"No," she said, slowly; "I didn't. We took two little rooms over a baker's shop in the High Street, Islington, and I stuck to him. I used to go out in an evening and do the marketing with a hand basket, to get it cheap. When we wanted a change we would take a bus to the Park and look at the swells across the railings; and sometimes Saidie gave us tickets for the theatres. Seems odd, don't it? but it's a fact. I was livelier then than ever I've been in my life. While he was fond of me—he showed me he was fond of me, you see."
"You were capable of love, then, after all?" he said bitterly.
"I don't know. I loved the freedom I think, anyway, and perhaps I took him with it. I don't know! what does it matter? It was a release for you and you are glad that it happened, eh? now that the shame of it is forgotten? We were never suited to each other, were we?"
"Why speak of what is past?"
"You see, if I had remained with you I should have been no happier," said Bella, reflectively; "you expected too much from me."
"I did my best to make you happy."
"Yes, perhaps! then if I had been more grateful and different, would you be glad if I was with you still?"
"I cannot answer that question. I loved you—I had no thought for any human being outside yourself."
"But now," she persisted, "now that the wound is old, do you not say to yourself, 'it was better so'? Suppose that you and I were still what we were once to each other, would you be happy to know that I was your wife to-day?"
"I beg you to be silent. It is impossible that we can discuss such a question."
She came close to his chair.
"I am," she said with a sort of feverish eagerness, "no more of a lady now than I was then. I am just what I used to be when I made you
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