"Of course," says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyes sinking to the ground.
Dysart stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledge that he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomes all other thoughts, and drives him to repentance.
"I shouldn't have asked you that," says he bluntly.
"No, no!" says she, acquiescing quickly, "and yet," raising an eager, lovely face to his, "I hardly know anything about—about myself. Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes——" She stops abruptly and looks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me for betraying myself like this?"
"No—I want to hear all about it."
"Ah! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Nature won't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night——"
"Yes, I know. You hated him last night. I don't wish to know why. I am quite satisfied in that you did so."
"But shall I hate him to-morrow? Oh, yes, I think so—I hope so," cries she suddenly. "I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not one possible to class. He is false—naturally treacherous, and yet——"
She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help.
"Let us forget him," she says, and then in a little frightened way, "Oh, I wish I could be sure I could forget him!"