“Of everything—of nothing! Perhaps it is I that am to blame!” she cried in a muffled voice.
“What have I done?”
She sat up, weeping, and pressed the pain from her forehead.
“Oh, monsieur! it is not a little thing to pass twelve hours in the most terrible loneliness—in the most terrible anxiety!”
“I do not understand.”
“You do not, indeed—the feelings of others—the wisdom of discretion.”
“Mademoiselle!” I exclaimed, in all patience.
She sat, with her palms resting upon the ledge. She looked up at me defiantly, though she yet fought with her sobs.
“It was doubtless a fine thing in your eyes this morning,” she said, “to throw scorn to that wretch who could have destroyed you with a word.”
I felt my breath come quickly.