The spell upon her was broken. But before she could cry out he had released her, his form a-tremble and his hands cupping piteously to his mouth in that weird gesture she had once before witnessed.
She staggered back, white to the lips, her hands clenched at her breast. “You—you—!”
Her accusing tones fell on him like blows as he stood with bowed head. “It is true,” he acknowledged contritely. “I had forgotten a sacred trust—a trust I was unworthy of. But—but it shall not happen again.”
She was steadying her trembling limbs. “I—I shall always be afraid of you now.”
“Please do not say that,” he implored. “You will not have much longer to endure my company.”
At heart she was sorry for him already. Perhaps it was this physical trouble which seized him like the ague in moments of acute emotion that drew her woman’s sympathy; perhaps she conceded it was the situation, the tenseness brought about by acute artistic emotion that was largely to blame—though he had the bigness to offer no such excuses.
At any rate, she could not find it in her heart to condemn this proud, handsome man, who, though he held her here utterly in his power, was abjectly humbled before the flash of her scorn.
Still she said: “There is only one explanation that might restore my confidence, and that is a genuine one as to why you had me brought here, why you insist on detaining me here.”
He brightened. “To-morrow you shall have that explanation in full as I have promised you—after you have met J.C.X.”
“J.C.X.?” She smiled incredulously.