"Does it burn, does it prick, does it soil, Simon?" she asked. "See, touch it, touch it. It is as it was, isn't it?" She put it close by my hand, waiting for me to take it, but I did not take it. "As it was when you kissed it," said she; but still I did not take it.
I rose to my feet slowly and heavily, like a tired man whose legs are reluctant to resume their load. She stood quite still, regarding me now with alarmed and wondering eyes.
"It's nothing," I stammered. "Indeed it's nothing; only I hadn't thought of it."
Scarcely knowing what I did, I began to move towards the door. An unreasoned instinct impelled me to get away from her. Yet my gaze was drawn to her face; I saw her lips pouting and her cheek flushed, the brightness of her eyes grew clouded. She loved me enough to be hurt by me, if no more. A pity seized me; turning, I fell on my knee, and, seizing the hand whose touch I had refused, I kissed it.
"Ah, you kiss my hand now!" she cried, breaking into smiles again.
"I kiss Cydaria's hand," said I. "For in truth I'm sorry for my Cydaria."
"She was no other than I am," she whispered, and now with a touch of shame; for she saw that I felt shame for her.
"Not what is hurts us, but what we know," said I. "Good-bye, Cydaria," and again I kissed her hand. She drew it away from me and tossed her head, crying angrily:
"I wish I hadn't told you."