THE AMERICAN
"I know that; it's not worthy of me. But it's the only one I have to give. After all," said Madame de Cintré, throwing out vain hands, "think me an idiot and forget me! That will be the simplest way."
He got up and walked away with a crushing sense that his cause was lost and yet with an equal inability to give up fighting. He went to one of the great windows and looked out at the stiffly-embanked river and the formal gardens beyond it. When he turned round she had risen; she stood there silent and passive, so passive that it told terribly of her detachment. "You're not frank," he began again; "you're not really honest any more than you're merciful. Instead of saying you're imbecile you should say that other people are wicked. Your mother and your brother have been false and cruel; they have been so to me, and I'm sure they have been so to you. Why do you try to shield them? Why do you sacrifice me to them? I'm not false; I'm not cruel. You don't know what you give up; I can tell you that—you don't. They bully you and plot about you; and I—I—" And he paused, lifting the strong arms to which she would n't come. She but turned away and began to leave him. "You told me the other day that you were afraid of your mother," he followed her to say. "It must have meant something. What therefore did it mean?"
She shook her head. "I remember. I was sorry afterwards."
"You were sorry when she came down on you and used some atrocious advantage. In God's name, what is it she does to you?"
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