in the eyes of others even by forcing you to face a scandal. I could
not bear to humble you in your own eyes by letting you suspect that I
knew the truth. I could not bring myself to disturb the outward
respectability of your life by interrupting its outward calm. To be
absolutely honest--though I had lost you, I could not bring myself to
give you up,--as I felt I must, if I let any one discover--most of all
you--what I knew. So, like a coward, I lived on, becoming gradually
accustomed to the idea that my day was past, but knowing that the
moment I was forced to speak, I would be forced to move on out of your
life. Singularly enough, as I grew calm, I grew to respect this other
woman. I could not blame her for loving you. I ended by admiring her.
I had known her so well--she was such a proud woman! I looked back at
my marriage and saw the affair as it really was. I had not _sold_
myself to you exactly--I had loved you too much to bargain in that
way; nevertheless, the marriage had been a bargain. In exchange for
your promise to protect and provide for me,--to feed me, clothe me,
share your fortune with me, and give me your name, I had given you
myself,--openly sanctioned by the law, of course--I was too great a
coward to have done it otherwise, in spite of the fact that the law
gives that same permission to almost any one who asks for it."

"Naomi," he groaned from his covered mouth, "what ghastly philosophy."

"Isn't that the marriage law? How much better am I after all than the
poor girl in the street, who is forced to it by misery? To be sure, I
believe there is some farcical phrase in the bargain about promising
to love none other,--a bare-faced attempt to outwit Nature,--at which
Nature laughs. Yet this other woman, proud, high-minded, unselfish,
hitherto above reproach, had given herself for love alone--with
everything to lose and nothing to gain. I have come to doubt myself. I