It was not only that her voice was cold, it expressed repugnance, and without requesting an explanation Basil followed her and mounted the stairs. The sound of his footsteps brought the woman he had met on Westminster Bridge to the door of the front room.
"You have kept your promise," she said. "Come in."
A younger woman than she rose as he entered, cast one brief glance at him, and immediately left the room. The window blinds were down and the gas was lighted. His strange acquaintance of the previous night was dressed in deep mourning. Her face was white and swollen with weeping.
"I prayed for a miracle last night," she said, "but my prayers were not answered. I have also repented that I asked you to come, but still it is right, it is right. If you have a heart it should be a punishment to you for all you have made me suffer."
"I do not in the least understand you," said Basil.
Had it not been for her grief her look would have been scornful. She paid no heed to his words, but continued:
"When I said last night that I wanted nothing of you I said what I meant. When you go from here I wish never to see your face again. It will be useless for you to trouble me."
"I shall not trouble," said Basil in a gentle tone which seemed to make her waver; but she would not yield to this softer mood.
"That you are poor to-day," she said, "and I am well-to-do, so far as money goes, proves that there is a Providence. Years ago--very soon after your desertion of me--I cast you from my heart, and resolved never to admit you into it again. It might have been otherwise had you behaved honestly to me, for I loved you, and you made me believe that you loved me. It was better for me that the tie which bound us should be broken. I have led a respectable life, and shall continue to do so. I am the happier for it."
"For heaven's sake," cried Basil, "explain what it is you accuse me of."