“I do understand,” said Perior, who stood still, scorning, as she felt, to touch and cast her off. “You are engaged to Arthur. You are disgraced—and I am disgraced.”
“Through me, then! You were ignorant! But wait—only listen—I am engaged to him; but I love you—don’t be too angry—for really I love you—only you—Oh! you must believe me!”
He retreated before her clasped imploring hands, she almost crying, following, indifferent to the indignity of her protesting supplication. “Indeed, I love you!” she reiterated, her chin quivering a little as the cruelty of his withdrawal brought the tears to her eyes.
Perior took the clasped hands by the wrists and held her off. “You love me?—and you love him too?”—she shook her head helplessly. “No; you have accepted him, not loving him, and you dared,”—the cruelty was now physical, as his clench tightened on her wrists—“you dared turn to me, to debase me with yourself, you false, you miserable creature!”
Under the double hurt she closed her eyes. “But why—but why did I turn?” she almost sobbed.
“You ask me why? Can I tell what folly, what vanity prompted you? Those are mild words.”
“Oh!—how you hurt me!” she breathed; the feminine sensitiveness was a refuge—a reproach. He released her wrists. “Because I love you,” she said, and standing still before him she looked at him through tears. “You may be angry, despise me, but I only want to tell you everything. You are so brutal. It was a mistake—I did not know—not till this evening. I accepted him because you would not prevent me—because you didn’t come—nor seem to care, and—yes, because I was bad—ambitious—vain—like other women—and I did like him—respect him. But now!”—the appealing monotone, broken by little gasps, wailed up at the inflexibility of his face—“it isn’t folly, it isn’t vanity—or why should I sacrifice everything for you, as I do—Oh! as I do!”
“Sacrifice everything for me? Go away!”
“Oh!—how can you!” She broke into sobs—“how can you be so cruel to me—when you love me!”
“Love you!”