“It is not even in my power to do that.”
“Oh, I see. I'm not good enough for him,” said Ashmead, bitterly.
“You do yourself injustice, and him too,” said Ina, courteously.
“Well, then?”
“My friend,” said she, deprecatingly, “he is not here.”
“Not here? That is odd. Well, then, you will be dull till he comes back. Come without him; at all events, to the opera.”
She turned her tortured eyes away. “I have not the heart.”
This made Ashmead look at her more attentively. “Why, what is the matter?” said he. “You are in trouble. I declare you are trembling, and your eyes are filling. My poor lady—in Heaven's name, what is the matter?”
“Hush!” said Ina; “not so loud.” Then she looked him in the face a little while, blushed, hesitated, faltered, and at last laid one white hand upon her bosom, that was beginning to heave, and said, with patient dignity, “My old friend—I—am—deserted.”
Ashmead looked at her with amazement and incredulity. “Deserted!” said he, faintly. “You—deserted!!!”