The door was closed, and John Gordon and Mary were alone together. She was still seated, and he, coming forward, stood in front of her. "Mary," he said,—and he put out his right hand, as though to take hers. But she sat quite still, making no motion to give him her hand. Nor did she say a word. To her her promise, her reiterated¹ promise, to Mr Whittlestaff was binding²,—not the less binding because it had only been made on this very day. She had already acknowledged to this other man that the promise had been made, and she had asked him to spare her this interview. He had not spared her, and it was for him now to say, while it lasted, what there was to be said. She had settled the matter in her own mind, and had made him understand that it was so settled. There was nothing further that she could tell him. "Mary, now that we are alone, will you not speak to me?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Should I not have come to you?"

"You should not have stayed when you found that I had promised myself to another."

"Is there nothing else that I may wish to say to you?"

"There is nothing else that you should wish to say to the wife of another man."

"You are not his wife,—not yet."

"I shall be his wife, Mr Gordon. You may be sure of that. And I think—think I can say of myself that I shall be a true wife. He has chosen to take me; and as he has so chosen, his wishes must be respected. He has asked you to remain here as a friend, understanding that to be the case. But as you do not choose, you should go."

"Do you wish me to stay, and to see you become his wife?"

"I say nothing of that. It is not for me to insist on my wishes. I have expressed one wish, and you have refused to grant it. Nothing can pass between you and me which must not, I should say, be painful to both of us."

"You would have me go then,—so that you should never hear of or see me again?"

"I shall never see you, I suppose. What good would come of seeing you?"

"And you can bear to part with me after this fashion?"

"It has to be borne. The world is full of hard things, which have to be borne. It is not made to run smoothly⁴ altogether, either for you or for me. You must bear your cross,—and so must I."

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