Judith stared at her as she sat there, self-conscious, melodramatic, anxious for effect.
She never knew if mere whim or a sudden burst of cruelty had prompted her words.
“According to your own account, Esther,” she said, “you must always have been a little beast.”
Esther chuckled. Judith went on sewing, but changed her silks.
She wondered if the evening would never end, and yet she did not want Reuben to go.
He rose at last and made his farewells.
Judith put out her hand carelessly as he approached her, then, drawn by an irresistible magnetism, lifted her eyes to his.
As she did so, from Reuben’s eyes flashed out a long melancholy glance of passion, of entreaty, of renunciation; and once again, even from the depths of her own humiliation, arose that strange, yearning sentiment of pity, with which this man, who was strong, ruthless and successful, had such power of inspiring her.
Only for a moment did their eyes meet, the next she had turned hers away—had in her turn grown cold and unresponsive.
How dared he look at her thus? How dared he profane that holiest of sorrows, the sorrow of those who love and are by fate separated?