“You cannot guess how cruel you are,” she said. “But come if you will.”
She led the way up the first flight and into her boudoir. I had never entered this room in all my life before, had never more than assayed in chance glimpses the wealth and costliness of its appointments. Now, as she shut us in together among the rich hangings, the velvet-lined cabinets and tables glistening with china, and old silver, and infinite bijouterie, I felt as if Fate had imposed on me a sacrilege which no pretext of duty could condone. There were lighted girandoles on the walls, a carpet soft as turf beneath my feet, a great fire leaping on the hearth. She drew a low chair to it, and sank down, resting her chin on her hand and frowning into the glow. I went and stood before her.
“Lady Skene,” I said, “this is a beautiful room. It seems to embody in itself all that of comfort, and rich possession, and happy security for which so many of us are ready to barter away our souls.”
She never moved or raised her eyes.
“Happy!” she muttered.
“Why, are you not?” I said. “Hardly worth while, then, to risk so much to gain so little. Neither happy nor secure, perhaps?”
She looked up suddenly.
“What have you found out? Have you been spying?”
“Yes, I have been spying.”
She rose to her feet, her hands clinched against her skirts. I had never seen her look so wretched or so lovely.