"That was the hardest part of it. He would not reproach me. Had he been bitter or hard or cold I could have borne it better; but he was silent on the head of his wrongs. He only sat there, looking distinctly miserable, without an unkind word on his lips."
"What? Did he say nothing?"
"Very little. Unless to tell me I had treated him disgracefully, I don't know that there was anything to be said. He declared that he had expected just such an answer; that he felt he had no right to hope for a happier one. He did not blame me—of course I was acting wisely—and so on. He never once asked me to reconsider my words. Then he got up and said he must bid me a long farewell. He knew a man who would gladly exchange with him and give him a chance of seeing a little Indian life; he was tired of England. You can imagine the kind of thing."
"Poor fellow! How did he look?"
"He was very white, and his lips were tightly compressed. And I think there were—tears in his eyes. Oh, Phyllis" cries Bebe, passionately, rising to push her chair back sharply, and beginning to pace the room, "when I saw the tears in his eyes I almost gave in. Almost, mark you, not quite. I am too well trained for that."
"I think I would have relented."
"I am sure you would; but your education has been so different. Upon this earth," says Bebe, slowly, "there is nothing so mean or so despicable as a woman born and bred as I am. Taught from our cradles to look on money and money's worth as the principal good to be obtained in life; with the watchwords, 'an excellent match,' 'a rich marriage,' 'an eligible parti,' drummed into our ears from the time we put on sashes and short frocks. There is something desperately unwholesome about the whole thing."
"Did you never see him since?" ask I, deeply impressed by her manner and the love-affair generally.
"Never until to-night. You may fancy what a shock it was."
"And he didn't even kiss you before going away, as he thought, forever?" I exclaim, unwisely.