month. In two years' time I shall be free, and then I will come to you to give you—and it—my name. I ask nothing from you, you understand—nothing—but I claim the right to give you the redress I owe you. God knows I shall suffer because it cannot be done before. Nothing else will I claim; you shall not be tied in the least to me—an old man."
"Gert, I am glad that you are separated from her, but I will tell you once and for all that I am not going to marry you when I cannot be your wife in truth. It is not because of the difference in age. If I did not feel that I have never wholly been yours, as I should have been, I would stay with you—your wife as long as you were young, your friend when old age came—even your nurse—willingly and happily. But I know I cannot be what a wife ought to be, and I cannot promise a thing I could not keep just because of what other people might say—church or civil contract, it makes no difference."
"It is madness, Jenny, to talk like that."
"You cannot make me change on that point," she replied quietly.
"What are you going to do, child? I cannot let you go now. What will happen to you?—you must let me help you."
"Hush. You see I take it calmly. I suppose once you are in for it, it is not so bad as you imagine. Fortunately I have still some money left."
"But, Jenny, think of the people who will be unkind to you—look down on you."
"Nobody can do that. There is only one thing I am ashamed of, and it is that I allowed you to waste your love on me."
"Such foolish talk! You don't know how heartless people can be; they will treat you unkindly, insult and hurt you."
"I don't mind that very much, Gert." She smiled vaguely. "Fortunately I am an artist; people expect a little scandal now and then from us."
He shook his head. In a sudden desperate regret at having
