CHAPTER XXV
THE PERVERSENESS OF WORDS
"Berriet mein blasses Angesicht
Dir nicht mein Liebeswehe?
Und willst du, dass der stolze Mund
Das Bettelwort gestehe?"
HEINE.
Steven, stretching a determined hand at last to the bell, was arrested in the act by the sound of the opening door. He turned to see Sidonia standing in the entrance.
It seemed as if, after all, these two were as yet unripe for love's fulfilment. The pride of each, unchastened, the quick susceptibilities, the unreasonable expectations and demands of the crudely young, built frowning barriers between them.
Steven, who but last night had burned with ardour for his lost bride; who, but this morning, had set out to win her back, tender, conquering, almost joyous, felt the fretful impatience of his ten minutes of waiting leap into positive anger under the accusing glance of Sidonia's eyes. Their looks met—one might almost say, struck—like steel blades, each quick to feel and resent the other's attitude.
"Ah, no, he does not love!" cried the girl, in her heart. And—
"She never loved me," said the man in his pride. "I have been a triple fool!"
But did she think that a Waldorff-Kielmansegg was thus to be played with, made the sport of heaven knew what ignoble feminine intrigue, a marriage of convenience, quickly repented of, and then, farewell? No, he had his rights as a man, his honour to defend, and things could not end here.
"What brings you?" asked Sidonia. Being the woman, she was the first to speak.