were like two armies watching each other across a narrow stream, between
one conflict and another.

For a minute they stood at gaze. The only sounds in the room were the
whirring of the fire in the chimney and the child's breathing. At last
Philip's intemperate self-will gave way. There was no withstanding that
cold, still face, that unwavering eye. Only brutality could go further.
The nobility of her nature, her inflexible straight-forwardness came upon
him with overwhelming force. Dressed in molleton, with no adornment save
the glow of a perfect health, she seemed at this moment, as on the
Ecrehos, the one being on earth worth living and caring for. What had he
got for all the wrong he had done her? Nothing. Come what might, there
was one thing that he could yet do, and even as the thought possessed him
he spoke.

"Guida," he said with rushing emotion, "it is not too late. Forgive the
past-the wrong of it, the shame of it. You are my wife; nothing can undo
that. The other woman--she is nothing to me. If we part and never meet
again she will suffer no more than she suffers to go on with me. She has
never loved me, nor I her. Ambition did it all, and of ambition God
knows I have had enough! Let me proclaim our marriage, let me come back
to you. Then, happen what will, for the rest of our lives I will try to
atone for the wrong I did you. I want you, I want our child. I want to
win your love again. I can't wipe out what I have done, but I can put
you right before the world, I can prove to you that I set you above place
and ambition. If you shrink from doing it for me, do it"--he glanced
towards the bed--"do it for our child. To-morrow--to-morrow it shall be,
if you will forgive. To-morrow let us start again--Guida--Guida!"

She did not answer at once; but at last she said "Giving up place and