For a brief space the mocking light died out of her face, while her
voice grew deeply earnest. A rush of memories made her emotion so keen
that she could not keep seated, and walking to and fro she talked
rapidly, at times almost wildly.

"Your discernment for once was right; I had the capacity for
suffering more than most women, and infinitely more than my husband,
with all his worship of our boy. After his death my heart craved love
and sympathy as it had never done before, and to whom but you was I to
turn for it? And was it given? Let your conscience answer. With his
death you shut me out of your heart, as I have said, when I most
needed your sympathy. How many times before this passion for
excitement, which you speak of, took possession of me, did I come to
you in your study, in which you isolated yourself so, and tried, in
numberless little ways, to show you how sorely I needed you--tried to
make our sorrow a common one, tried to make you realize that I needed
your company and sympathy to save me from the thoughts which seemed to
be wearing away my very life. A dog could not more mutely have shown
its craving for pity and companionship than I did; but the more I
sought you out the more the desire seemed to grow upon you to nurse
your own sorrow alone. At last it got so (you _must_ remember) that I
saw you only at our meals, which you ate almost in silence. The
continued quiet of the house, and the company of my own sad thoughts
and longings for him, finally grew more than I could bear, and so,
after a year of suffering and solitude in this house, I broke down and
tried to forget by accepting social invitations. I had, of course, to
go out alone; you refused to go with me. So now I have humiliated
myself to tell you the truth, and you can judge whether I am heartless
or not; whether I truly loved my boy or not; and who is to blame if I
am now heartless."