"Oh, you might have spared me that! O God! was it not hard enough
before?" she sobbed.

In his loving stupidity, thinking to reassure her, he had wounded the
pride of shame, the last retreat of self-respect, that cruellest hurt of
all. There was a long silence. She seemed to have forgotten that he was
there. Looking down upon her as she sat desolate, degraded, hopeless
before him, not caring to cover her face, his heart swelled till it
seemed as if it would burst, with such a sense of piteous loyalty and
sublimed devotion as a faithful subject in the brave old times might have
felt towards his queen whom he has found in exile, rags, and penury.
Deserted by gods and men she might be, but his queen for ever she was,
whose feet he was honoured to kiss. But what a gulf between feeling this
and making her understand his feeling!

At length, when her sobs had ceased, he said, quietly--

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"It's all the same. It's no matter," she answered, listlessly, wiping her
eyes with her hand. "I wish you would go away, though, and leave me
alone. What do you want with me?"

"I want what I have always wanted: I want you for my wife."

She looked at him with stupid amazement, as if the real meaning of this
already once declared desire had only just distinctly reached her mind,
or as if the effect of its first announcement had been quite effaced by
the succeeding outburst.