“You haven’t kissed me to-day,” she said. “No, don’t do it. You don’t want to, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” he said, and as he bent over her he was touched by the contented sigh she gave. If he could begin over again, he told himself, with the virtue of the man who has committed himself fatally, things would be different. If he hadn’t brought Henrietta to such a pass, they should be different now.
“I’ve never stopped being fond of you, Christabel.”
She laughed and disconcerted him. “Or of your horses, or your dogs,” she said. “No one could expect you to care much for a useless log like me. No one could have expected you not to go to that dance.” Tears filled her eyes. “But I was lonely. And I imagined you there—”
“I wish I hadn’t gone,” he said truthfully.
She seemed to consider that remark, but presently she asked, “Have you lost something?”
He had lost a great deal, for Rose despised him; that had been plain in the face which once had been so soft for him.
“I asked you,” Christabel said, “if you had lost something.”
“Yes—no, nothing.”
She let out a small piercing shriek. “You’re lying, lying! But why should I care? You’ve done that for years. And Rose has been so kind, hasn’t she, coming to see me every week? Take your letter, Francis. Yes, I’ve read it! I don’t care. I’m helpless. Take it!” From its hiding-place under the coverlet she drew the letter and threw it at him. It fluttered feebly to the ground. She had made a tremendous effort, trying to fling it in his face, and it had fallen as mildly as a snowflake. She began to sob. This was the climax of her suffering, that it should fall like that.