She sipped the wine, put it aside, and continued:
"You can not understand the utter ruin of hopes, ambitions, beliefs, that heretofore made my life worth living. In the awful wreck one thing survives—my faith in you, who walk always in the light of 'the high white star of Truth.' I honor and I trust you now as I never did before the ordeal of the last few hours. The fault was mine, not yours; and as I deserve, I wish I could bear all the pain, all the consequences, of my desperate rashness. You do not understand what I suffer."
She stood with her hands folded on her breast, so close to him that he noted how wan and drawn the young face had grown, how measureless the misery in eyes peering hopelessly into futurity.
"At least I fully and sorrowfully understand one thing—you know no more about love than that baby you nursed on the train."
In avoidance of his cold scrutiny, her strained gaze had wandered to the frieze of silver lilies on the wall, but now she looked at him.
"Mr. Herriott, you may be sure that when you go away and leave me forever, I shall never learn."
There was a sudden glint in his eyes, like a blue blade flash, but after a moment he listened to the clock, and turned away.
"Good-night. Get all the sleep you can. You will need it for your journey South to-morrow."
He closed the door, and she heard his quick step ring down the long stairway; then the joyful bark of the dogs told he had left the house.
She was an unusually healthy woman, and, impatient of the teasing pain in her temples, shook out her heavy coil of hair. She walked from door to fireplace, from bed to bathroom, up and down, around and around, too restless to lie down, dominated by a strange feeling she made no attempt to analyze. As the clock struck four, she still walked to and fro, never suspecting that Mr. Herriott stood in the hall, close to her door, listening to the slow sound of her feet on the polished oak floor, fighting down his longing to enter and take her in his arms.