"You remember all that happened the night before last?"
"I do," slowly.
"I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg your pardon, to ask you to——" she stops, afraid to trust her voice further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her throat and threatens to make itself heard.
"I don't want you to beg my pardon," says Guy, hastily, in a pained tone. "If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, promise me you will think no more about it."
"Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,"—with a little nervous laugh,—"because you cannot see my face. It is burning."
"Is it?" tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and finds it is indeed, as she has said, "burning." He discovers something else also,—tears quite wet upon it.
"You are crying, child," he says, startled, distressed.
"Am I? No wonder. I ought to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you. I shall never forgive myself."
"Nonsense!" angrily. "Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a tear."
"I cry"—with a heavy sob—"because I fear you will never think well of me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed"—sadly—"I ever had it. You must think badly of me."