A wan smile crossed her lips grown suddenly pallid.
“You mistake,” said she; “if my name brings up a past laden with bitter memories and shadowed by regret, it also recalls much that is pleasant and never to be forgotten. I do not object to hearing my girlhood’s name uttered—by my nearest relative.”
The answer was dignity itself. “Your name is Countess De Mirac, your relatives must be proud to utter it.”
A gleam not unlike the lightning’s quick flash shot from the eyes she drooped before him.
“Is it Holman Blake I am listening to,” said she; “I do not recognize my old friend in the cool and sarcastic man of the world now before me.”
“We often fail to recognize the work of our hands, madame, after it has fallen from our grasp.”
“What,” she cried, “do you mean—would you say that—”
“I would say nothing,” interrupted he calmly, stooping for the fan she had dropped. “At an interview which is at once a meeting and a parting, I would give utterance to nothing which would seem like recrimination. I—”
“Wait,” suddenly exclaimed she, reaching out her hand for her fan with a gesture lofty as it was resolute. “You have spoken a word which demands explanation; what have I ever done to you that you should speak the word recrimination to me?”
“What? You shook my faith in womankind; you showed me that a woman who had once told a man she loved him, could so far forget that love as to marry one she could never respect, for the sake of titles and jewels. You showed me—”