"Oh, so you do know it!" she burst forth, passionately; "you do know it! Your faith has never been mine; it did not suit me. But I have had none other instead; I went about thinking it was a sin that I could not have the same faith as you; I was crushed and overwhelmed, not being able to devote all my strength to something of my own. Therefore I have never been like others. It has all been wrong!"
"What would you have been, you?"
"Let me say the worst--a circus rider," answered she, without as much as moving an eye. He stopped abruptly, he could neither believe his ears nor his eyes.
"Circus rider?" He laughed scornfully. "Indeed, it has been a great loss for the world--and for yourself, Josephine, that you did not become one!"
"I knew you would think so! But if I had had to do with the management of a circus I could have provided bread for hundreds, and healthy amusement for thousands. That is not so little--it is more than most can do. As it is, what have I done? What empty trifles have I been struggling with? And to what have I attained? That I am on the point of despising both yourself and me! What has our life--what has our intercourse come to? Can you even say that you cherish any love for me? Can I say that I am fond of you?"
"No, Josephine, we both know of whom you are fond."
Had he struck her as her brother had done, she could not have been more furious--partly because he had said that (she scarcely knew that it had been in his thoughts), and partly because this man who made that speech owed everything to her brother and to herself, and yet it was he who had come between the brother and sister and separated them.
"Ah, he possesses that which you have not!" she answered, seeking to wound him. "Nevertheless, it is cowardly of you to say such a thing."
"Is it, indeed? Do you not think that I know it is his fault that I have lost you, lost the peace of my home, lost, too, all joy in my calling, and am now threatened with the loss of my child?"
His voice trembled, he began in anger, but it turned to deep grief, and it was the same with her. She felt inclined to sob and cry. But neither of them would give way to such weakness. She stood looking out of the window; he walked up and down the room. There was a long, long pause. Again she was overcome with anger. His step, too, sounded defiant; still there was silence. What he had just said was shameful, certainly.