“It can never be?”
“Never,” he said low.
He knew, through the utmost conviction of his stricken soul, that it was all wrong and impossible—that he must answer as he had done.
He felt a quiver pass through her frame. She spoke again in a moment.
“My sin—I know it—holds us apart. I have not atoned, and, until I have, it holds us apart. Do you think, monsieur, Baptiste has forgiven me?”
“I think he has, Nicette.”
“But you cannot—not yet, though I love you so dearly. Perhaps I should not love you so well if you could. Yet it seems a strange thing to me why you helped me at all.”
He half rose from his chair; but she gently detained him, and he sank down again.
“You must go back to bed, Nicette. We will talk it all over to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” she said. “Shall we be any nearer one another to-morrow?”