This was a great bitterness. She thought that she hated him. But
hatred was inconsistent with her present mood, and she reflected that,
after all, Ralph was dying for love of her, that was a fact, and
behind that fact it were not wise to look. No man could do more than
die for the woman he loved, no man could prove his love more
completely. ... But it was so sad to think he was dying. Could nothing
be done to save him? Would he recover if she were to promise to be his
wife? She need not carry out her promise; she didn't know if she
could. But if a promise would cure him, she would promise. She would
go as far as that. ... But for what good? To get him well so that he
might continue living with that woman. ...

If he hadn't confessed, if she hadn't known of this shameful
connection, if it hadn't been dragged under her eyes! Ralph might have
spared her that. If he had spared her that she felt that she could
promise to be his wife, and perhaps to keep her promise, for in the
end she supposed she would have to marry some one. She didn't see how
she was going to escape. ... Yes, if he had not told her, or better
still, if he had not proved himself unworthy of her, she felt she
would have been capable of the sacrifice.

She had been to see him! She knew that she ought not to have gone. Her
instinct had told her not to go. But she had conquered her feeling. If
she had known that she was going to meet that woman she would not have
gone. Whenever we allow ourselves to be led by our better feelings we
come to grief. That woman hated her; she knew she did. She could see
it in her look. She wouldn't put herself in such a false position
again. ... A moment after she was considering if she should go to
Ellen and propose that she, Mildred, should offer to marry Ralph, but