Mr. Feuerstein looked down at Hilda's quivering shoulders with satisfaction. "I thought I could make even her feel," he said to himself complacently. Then to her in the hoarse undertone: "And my heart is breaking."
She straightened and her tears seemed to dry with the flash of her eyes. "Don't say that—you mustn't!" She blazed out before his astonished eyes, a woman electric with disdain and anger. "It's false—false! I hate you—hate you—you never cared—you've made a fool of me—"
"Hilda!" He felt at home now and his voice became pleading and anguished. "You, too, desert me! Ah, God, whenever was there man so wretched as I?" He buried his face in his hands.
"Oh, you put it on well," she scoffed. "But I know what it all means."
Mr. Feuerstein rose wearily. "Farewell," he said in a broken voice. "At least I am glad you will be spared the suffering that is blasting my life. Thank God, she did not love me!"
The physical fact of his rising to go struck her courage full in the face.
"No—no," she urged hurriedly, "not yet—not just yet—wait a few minutes more—"
"No—I must go—farewell!" And he seated himself beside her, put his arm around her.
She lay still in his arms for a moment, then murmured: "Say it isn't so, Carl—dear!"
"I would say there is hope, heart's darling," he whispered, "but I have no right to blast your young life. And I may never return."