explain this change in his mind. 'I suppose you did think it,' he
said suddenly.

'Think what, George?'

'That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word was
worth no reliance.'

'I thought no evil of you, George,--except that you were changed to
me. When you came, you said nothing to me. Do you not remember?'

'I came because I was told that you were to be married to this man.
I asked you the question, and you would not deny it. Then I said to
myself that I would wait and see.' When he had spoken she had
nothing farther to say to him. The charges which he made against
her were all true. They seemed at least to be true to her then in
her present mood,--in that mood in which all that she now desired
was his forgiveness. The wish to defend herself, and to stand
before him as one justified, had gone from her. She felt that
having still possessed his love, having still been the owner of the
one thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her own doubts;
and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder. 'It is of no
use to think of it any more,' he said at last. 'You have to become
this man's wife now, and I suppose you must go through with it.'

'I suppose I must,' she said; 'unless--'

'Unless what?'

'Nothing, George. Of course I will marry him. He has my word. And