himself to say, uncleansed as yet of jealousy, because she was still his wife.
"Addie," she said, "I am to blame. If I could only have got accustomed to things, like all of you, at Driebergen . . . I should have been happy."
"Yes, but it is not your fault that you couldn't."
"I don't want a divorce," she said.
"Why not?"
"For my sake . . . and the children's."
"The children's?"
"For their sake especially. No, Addie, I don't want it. Unless . . ."
"What?"
"Unless you want it . . . for your own sake, to be free, to marry somebody else."
"No."
"Then I don't want it either. If you assure me . . ."
"I do assure you."
"Then I don't want it either."
"And Erzeele?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's not as people say."
"What do they say?"
"That he is my lover. He's not that."
"I never supposed he was."
"I value his friendship . . . but I could not be his wife."
"Why not?"
"Because I am your wife."
"Do you feel that?"
"Always."
"My poor child!" he said, in spite of himself.
"Why do you pity me?" she asked, proudly.
"Because I have done you a wrong. Because I am unable to atone."
