"You—you throw him up?" she said, as if she could scarcely believe her ears.
Leslie raised her head and looked at her steadily, with a look that would have melted the heart of anyone but a rival.
"He belongs to you, not to me," she said in a low voice, as if every word cost her a heart pang. "I—I will never see him again if I can help it. Do not—" she paused, and a sigh broke from her white lips—"do not let him know; do not tell him that I have seen you. I—I have loved him, and would spare him the shame——."
There was silence for a second, Finetta gazing on the ground with set face and hidden eyes.
"If—if he should ever know that we met, and that you told me what you have told me, tell him that I—yes, that I forgive him. That I have forgiven and forgotten him. That is all."
Her head sank for a moment, then she raised it again and looked at the dark face with a shrinking kind of reluctance.
"You—you say that you care for him?"
Finetta's lips moved.
"Yes, and I know that you do. Be good to him. Do not let the thought that he deceived himself into thinking he cared for me come between you. He must love you very much to give you his portrait, to write you that note; try—try and make him happy."
Her voice broke, and she turned her head away.