THE TOUCHSTONE
that of gazing at her with an eye which seemed now to view her as a mere factor in an immense redistribution of meanings.
"I insulted Flamel to-day. I let him see that I suspected him of having told you. I hated him because he knew about the letters."
He caught the spreading horror of her eyes, and for an instant he had to grapple with the new temptation they lit up. Then he said with an effort—"Don't blame him—he's impeccable. He helped me to get them published; but I lied to him too; I pretended they were written to another man . . . a man who was dead. . ."
She raised her arms in a gesture that seemed to ward off his blows.
"You do despise me!" he insisted.
"Ah, that poor woman—that poor woman—" he heard her murmur.
"I spare no one, you see!" he triumphed over her. She kept her face hidden.
"You do hate me, you do despise me!" he strangely exulted.
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