His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid a hand upon the table near him to steady himself.
"You are candid, on my soul," says he slowly.
She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over his feet as she goes by—the perfume of the violets lying in her bosom reaches him.
Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her by her naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow.
"Isabel, give me this dance," says he a little wildly.
"No!"
She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. "No!" she says again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and the door has closed behind her.
CHAPTER XIV.
"The old, old pain of earth."