"I—I don't think I'm competent to express an opinion," he said, in a low voice. "You should ask—some one else."
"There's no one else whom I can ask," she said quickly, and with her eyes always fixed imploringly upon him. "Tell me—what you think. What should a woman do in a case like that?"
"I—it's a difficult situation," he said, still holding under control his eager desire to advise her in the only way in which it seemed to him possible to advise her. But how could he trust his own judgment? "I"—he hesitated—"Personally," he said, "I can't imagine holding a woman to a promise that she has—repented of; but other men might—probably would feel differently."
"Yes," she said, sadly, "he—this man does."
"And you—the woman is quite sure she has made a mistake," he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, yes, quite sure," she said, quickly, "a terrible mistake."
"Then," said Gerard, and he drew a long sigh as of intense relief, "I don't think there could be two opinions on the subject. No one could advise you—this woman to ruin her life for a mistake, especially if the—the man were unworthy?" He looked at her questioningly.
"He seemed to her unworthy," she said, in a low voice.
"Then, for Heaven's sake," he asked, almost fiercely, "how can you hesitate?"
She did not speak, but turned her eyes towards the stage and again placed her fan so that it shielded them. All over the house there was the subdued rustle of people returning to their seats. The orchestra sounded the first notes of the third act, the curtain rose upon the gypsy camp. During Michaela's solo and the scene between the two men, Elizabeth still sat silent, her fan before her face. The act was well advanced before she turned to Gerard.