As Mr. Dunbar noted the solemn repose, the pathetic grace with which she endured the symbols that emblazoned her ignominous doom, a dark red glow suffused his face, a flush of shame for the indignity which he had been impotent to avert.
"Who dared to cut your hair—and thrust that garb upon you? They promised me you should be exempt from brands of felony."
"When one is beaten with many stripes, a blow more or less matters little; is not computed. They kindly tell me that illness and the doctor's commands cost me the loss of my hair; and after all, why should I object to the convict coiffure? Nothing matters any more."
"Why not admit at once that, Bernice-like, you freely offered up your beautiful hair as love's sacrifice?"
He spoke hotly, and an ungovernable rage possessed him as he realized that though so near, and apparently so helpless, she was yet so immeasurably removed, so utterly inaccessible. Her drooping white lids lifted; she looked steadily up at him, and the mournful eyes held no hint of denial. He stretched his hand across the table, and all the gnawing hunger at his heart leaped into his voice, that trembled with entreaty.
"For God's sake give me your hand just once, as proof that you forgive my share in this cruel, dastardly outrage."
"Do not touch me. When we shake hands it must be as seal upon a very sacred compact, which you are not yet ready to make."
She straightened herself, and her hands were removed from the table; fell to stroking the cat lying on her knee.
"What conditions would you impose upon me?"
"Sit down, Mr. Dunbar, and let us transact the necessary business which alone made this interview possible."