She flung herself down again, her voice lost in a paroxysm of grief.
Mirko bit his moustache; scenes of this kind annoyed him terribly and now that his fever had passed he could think of nothing to say. Presently Ragna faced him once more.
"You despise me, don't you?" she asked.
"Never! Never in the world, my darling!" he cried but his voice carried no conviction. "I owe you all gratitude!"
"Oh!" she said, her eyes widening, a hard look coming over her face, "oh!"
He lifted her limp hand and kissed it.
"I am your devoted slave,—you have given me the greatest proof of love—"
"What are you going to do about it?" she interrupted.
"Do about it. What is there to do? The memory of this—"
"Ah, so it is already a memory to you! To me it is dishonour."