THE AMERICAN
funeral," he said. "Then I waited three days. But I could wait no longer."
"Nothing can be lost or gained by waiting," she answered. "But it was very considerate of you to wait, horribly wronged as you've been."
"I'm glad you think I've been horribly wronged," said Newman with that vague effect of whimsicality with which he often uttered words of the gravest meaning.
"Do I need to say so?" she asked. "I don't think I've wronged, seriously, many persons; certainly not consciously. To you, to whom I have done this hard and cruel thing, the only reparation I can make is to say that I know it, that I feel it. But such words are pitifully poor."
"Oh, they're a great step forward!" said Newman with a fixed and ah—as he even himself felt—such an anxious smile of encouragement. He pushed a chair toward her and held it, looking at her urgently. She sat down mechanically and he seated himself near her; but in a moment he got up and stood restlessly before her. She remained there like a troubled creature who had passed through the stage of restlessness.
"I say nothing's to be gained by my seeing you," she went on, "and yet I'm very glad you came. Now I can tell you what I feel. It's a selfish pleasure, but it's one of the last I shall have." And she paused with her great misty eyes on him. "I know how I've deceived and injured you; I know how cruel and cowardly I've been. I see it as vividly as you do—I feel it to the ends of my fingers." And she un-
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