Trafford looked down gravely, remorsefully; he had not thought of her. He did not know what to say, so, of course, he said the unwisest thing.
“Is—is Esmeralda ready?”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes gazed at him reproachfully.
“Let us forget her for—for these last few moments,” she said, painfully. “We shall have a few moments only for this, the parting of our lives.”
She drew nearer to him, and laying her hand upon his arm, looked up into his face with a yearning misery which made his heart ache; for what man can look unmoved upon the face of a woman whose unhappiness he has caused?
“I am very sorry,” he said in a low voice; and the trite, commonplace words seemed altogether inadequate.
She tried to smile, but the smile was more pathetic than tears.
“It could not be helped,” she said, almost huskily. “It is fate—fate. You are lost to me forever now, Trafford—forever! The words have rung in my ears all day! Ah, God, what I have suffered!” She put her hand to her lips as if to stifle the cry of anguish, and her fingers tightened upon his arm. “You will never know, never understand, for a man’s love, even at its best and fiercest, is not like a woman’s!”
“Hush!” he said, pityingly and warningly; and he glanced at the door which led into the drawing-room. “Be calm, Ada! For God’s sake— I think I heard some one in that room!”
“There is no one there,” she said, with the recklessness of despair.