“Excuse?”—in this nearing antagonism his voice flamed up at the sudden outlet—“Excuse? There was no excuse—for yesterday.” Saved from the direct brutality of refusing her love, the memory of Arthur’s betrayed trust rose hot within him. Arthur’s sincerity shone in its noble unconsciousness of the falseness of friend and sweetheart, one falseness forced, one willing and frivolous; his grief was mocked by her indifference.
“Nothing can excuse that,” he said. “What right had you to accept him? What right had you to keep me in ignorance? Why did you not break with him before turning to me? By Heaven, Camelia! even knowing you as I do I cannot understand how you did it! I could hardly look him in the face when he was here, the thought of it sickened me so.”
“Yes, that was horrible,” said Camelia.
“Horrible?” Perior repeated. Her judicial tone exasperated him. He walked away to the window repeating, “Horrible!” as though exclaiming at inadequacy.
“But have I not atoned?” Camelia asked.
“Atoned?” he stared round at her.
“I have set him free. I have owned myself unworthy. I did not know you cared for me when I accepted him, or, at least, I did not know I cared for you—so much.”
Perior continued to look at her for a silent moment, contemplating the monstrousness, yet strangely intuitive truth of her amendment. He let it pass, feeling rather helpless before it.
“So that is the way you pave the way to penitence? You atone to the broken toys by walking over them? No, Camelia, no, nothing atones, either to him or to me, for that unspoken lie.” He came back to her, feeling the need to face her for the solemn moment of the contest.
Camelia was speaking hurriedly at last, losing a little her sustaining calm—“And had I told you?—Had I said at once that I was engaged to him?—Would that have helped us?—Could you have said, then, that you loved me? You would have been too angry—for his sake—to say it, when I had told you that in one day I had accepted and meant to reject him”—the questions came eagerly.