She shook her head, and, as she answered, it was in a dead voice. “There is nothing to do.”
“If I leave you, will you promise to cry? You must cry,” he commanded.
“I can’t cry,” she answered, in the same expressionless flatness of tone.
“Duska, can you forgive me?” He had moved around, and stood leaning forward with his hands resting upon the table.
“Forgive you for what?”
“For being the author of all this hideous calamity,” he burst out with self-accusation, “for bringing him there—for introducing you.”
She reached out suddenly, and seized his hand.
“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Do you suppose that I would give up a memory that I have? Why, all my world is memory now! Do you suppose I blame you—or him?”
“You might very well blame us both. We both knew of the possibilities, and let things go on.”
She rose, and let her eyes rest on him with directness. Her voice was not angry, but very earnest.