- konsky had longed for. They rose and went back
to the drawing-rooms. She and Pembroke were in front, and by a gesture she stopped him in a recess under the broad staircase, that was half concealed by great palms. Perhaps Pembroke might have had a weak moment—but as Olivia passed him on Ryleief's arm, though she avoided his glance he saw her face—he saw a kind of gentle scorn in her delicate nostril—a shade of contempt that hardened his heart toward Madame Volkonsky on the instant.
In a moment or two everybody but themselves had gone. They were virtually alone.
"Pembroke," said Madame Volkonsky. The tone, and the piercing look which accompanied it, had all the virtue of sincerity.
"You know what I would say," she continued. "You have everything in your hands. You may drive me away from here—away from respectable society—away from all that makes life tolerable. What have I done to you that you should deny me mercy?"
"But I can do nothing now," responded Pembroke. "It is too late. And besides I have done very little. If I may say it, M. Volkonsky has done it all himself."
"Yes," answered Madame Volkonsky. "It is true he has done it all. But surely, you might make some plea. At least you might try. Oh, you cannot know what it is to feel one's self sinking, sinking, and not a hand held out to save."
