"Every one is going. My father has left me—I——"
A scarlet spot came out on her cheek, but she did not withdraw her eyes.
"Saint Méran has gone also."
Gradually, as she looked at him, the blood receded from her face and left it like a mask of stone.
"I"—she began, in a sharp whisper, "do you not see? Do you not understand! Ah—my God!"
There was a chair near her and she fell into it, burying her face in the crushed velvet of her mantle as she bowed herself upon the table near.
"Hush!" she cried, "do not speak to me! That it should be I who stooped, and for this—for this! That having battled against my folly so long, I should have let it drag me to the dust at last!"
Her passionate sobs suffocated her. She could not check or control them. Her slender fingers writhed in their clasp upon each other.
"I never thought of this, God knows!" he said, hoarsely, "though there have been hours when I could have sworn that you had loved me once. I have thought of all things, but never of this—never that you could repent."
She lifted her head.
"That I should repent!" she cried. "Repent! Like this!"
"No," he returned, "I never thought of that, I swear!"
"And it is you," she cried, with scorn,—"you who stand there and look at me and tell me that it is all over!"
"Is it my fault that it is all over?" he demanded. "Is it?"
"No," she answered, "that is my consolation."
