“I will listen to no idle words,” said Zoe sternly. “A lady claimed you before my face; why did you not stand firm like a man, and say, 'You have no claim on me now; I have a right to love another, and I do?' Why did you fly?—because you were guilty.”
“No,” said he, doggedly. “Surprised and confounded, but not guilty. Fool! idiot! that I was. I lost my head entirely. Yes, it is hopeless. You must despise me. You have a right to despise me.”
“Don't tell me,” said Zoe: “you never lose your head. You are always self-possessed and artful. Would to Heaven I had never seen you!” She was violent.
He gave her time. “Zoe,” said he, after a while, “if I had not lost my head, should I have ill-treated a lady and nearly killed her?”
“Ah!” said Zoe, sharply, “that is what you have been suffering from—remorse. And well you may. You ought to go back to her, and ask her pardon on your knees. Indeed, it is all you have left to do now.”
“I know I ought.”
“Then do what you ought. Good-by.”
“I cannot. I hate her.”
“What, because you have broken her heart, and nearly killed her?”
“No; but because she has come between me and the only woman I ever really loved, or ever can.”