She was thinking of it still when she had met him, and had been so cold to him on the platform of the railway station, when she had sent him away angry because she had seemed to slight him.

She had thought of it as she had sat in her London room, telling him the terrible tale of her married life, while her eyes were fixed on his and her head was resting on her hands.

Even then, at that moment, she was asking herself whether he believed her story, or whether, within his breast, he was saying that she was vile and false.
She knew that she had been false to him, and that he must have despised her when, with her easy philosophy, she had made the best of her own mercenary perfidy.

He had called her a jilt to her face, and she had been able to receive the accusation with a smile.

Would he now call her something worse, and in a louder voice, within his own bosom?
And if she could convince him that to that accusation she was not fairly subject, might the old thing come back again?
Would he walk with her again, and look into her eyes as though he only wanted her commands to show himself ready to be her slave?
She was a widow, and had seen many things, but even now she had not reached her six-and-twentieth year.
The apples at her rich country-seat had quickly become ashes between her teeth, but something of the juice of the fruit might yet reach her palate if he would come and sit with her at the table.