“Well, the same thing holds good now. What have I done that those whom I have never harmed should lay themselves out to ruin my life—to render my days a hell and a curse to me? For it is a curse—a lifelong curse.”
“Not that—not that, God grant. Philip, be brave; you are young yet. Better days will dawn, dear.”
“But they will not bring me—you. No, something tells me it is not so—it never will be so. Nothing better will dawn for me but the grave. I told you before; I tell you again. I feel as if I had come to the end of my life.”
“Hush—hush,” she said, soothingly. “Your life is still your own; you are your own master. You must make an object in life for yourself. That is the only remedy.”
But he shook his head.
“No, no. The Satanic influence is everywhere. Was it not abroad that day on the river when one glimpse of you would have saved me? Had your parasol been held but a few inches higher I should have seen you, and the sight of you would have brought me back to you, back to myself, in time. Yet it was not to be.”
Again the bell rang, again the paddles slowed down. The massive red-tiled tower of Ouchy drew nearer and nearer. The Mont Blanc glided proudly up to the pier.
“Alma, darling—my lost love—we may never meet again. Something tells me we shall not. Give me—one kiss.”
His hands were holding hers. His sad eyes were full upon hers. And she loved him. What could she do?
“Would it be right?” she said, hesitatingly.