"You see a change in me, then?"

"You are not quite yourself, I think."

"I tell you again that I _am_ myself at last. You do not seem to like
the real man any better than the unreal: I am afraid you will not have
me on any terms. Well, let us go downstairs, since you prefer it."

"Oh, not unless you wish it too," said Marian, a little bewildered.

He took her candle and led the way out without another word or a look at
the bed. Marian, as he stood aside to let her go downstairs before him,
was suddenly seized with a fantastic fear that he was going to kill her.
She did not condescend to hurry or look back; but she only felt safe
when they were in her room, and he no longer behind her.

"Sit down," he said, placing the candle on the mantelpiece. She sat down
at the table, and he stood on the hearthrug. "Now," said he, "about the
future. Are you coming back? Will you give the life at Holland Park
another trial?"

"I cannot," she said, bending her head almost on her hands. "I should
disgrace you. And there is another reason."

"It is not in your power, nor in that of all London, to disgrace me if
I do not feel disgraced. It is useless to say that you cannot. If you
say 'I will not,' then that will settle it. What is the other reason?"

"It is not yet born. But it will be."

"That is no reason to me. Do you think I shall be a worse father to it
than he would have been?"

"No, indeed. But it would be unfair to you." He made an impatient
gesture. "I dont understand you, Ned. Would you not rather be free?"

"Freedom is a fool's dream. I am free. I can divorce you if I please: if
I live with you again it will be by my own choice. You are free too: you
have burnt your boats, and are rid of fashionable society, of your
family, your position, your principles, and all the rest of your chains
forever. You are declassed by your own act; and if you can frankly give
a sigh of relief and respect yourself for breaking loose from what is
called your duty, then you are the very woman I want for a wife. I may
not be the very man you want for a husband; but at all events you are
free to choose, free to change after you choose if you choose me, free
anyhow; for I will divorce you if you refuse; and then you will
be--independent--your own mistress--absolute proprietor of your own
child--everything that married women and girls envy. You have a
foretaste of that freedom now. What is it worth? One or two conditions
more or less to comply with, that is all: nature and society still have
you hard and fast; the main rules of the game are inviolable."

"I think it is a good thing to be free," said Marian, timidly.

"That means 'I will not.'"

"Not 'will not'; but I think I had better not."

"A characteristic distinction, Marian. I once thought, like you, that
freedom was the one condition to be gained at all cost and hazard. My
favorite psalm was that nonsense of John Hay's:

  'For always in thine eyes, O Liberty,
  Shines that high light whereby the world is saved;
  And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee.'

And she does slay us. Now I am for the fullest attainable life. That
involves the least endurable liberty. You dont see that yet. Very well:
you have liberty--liberty to hurt as well as help yourself; and you are
right to try whether it will not make you happier than wedlock has
done."

"It was not your fault; and it is very good of you to offer to take me
back, I know. Will my refusing disappoint you at all, Ned?"

"I am prepared for it. You may refuse or accept: I foresee how I shall
adapt myself to either set of circumstances."

"Yes, I forgot. You foresee everything," said Marian, with some
bitterness.

"No: I only face what I see. That is why you do not like living with me.
Good-bye. Do not look troubled: we shall meet again to-morrow and often
afterward, I hope; but to-night makes an end of the irrational knot."

"Good-night," said Marian rather forlornly, after a pause, proffering
her hand.

"One folly more," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. She
made no resistance. "If such a moment could be eternal, we should never
say good-bye," he added. "As it is, we are wise not to tempt Fortune by
asking her for such another."

"You are too wise, Ned," she said, suffering him to replace her gently
in the chair.

"It is impossible to be too wise, dearest," he said, and unhesitatingly
turned and left her.