“He does not care for me. I cannot make him! My money does not seem to make any difference. He is too fierce and independent. I don’t think that I shall ever be able to make him care.”
I looked steadily down upon the carpet, and set my teeth firmly. It was ridiculous that my heart should be beating so fiercely.
“I’m sorry for you,” I said, softly.
She fixed her black eyes upon me.
“You are sorry for me,” she repeated. “Very good, you do not care for him yourself. But listen! I am afraid, I fear that he cares for you.”
“You do not know that,” I faltered. “You——”
“Bah!” she interrupted, scornfully. “I know. But you—there is some one else. That is our secret. Never mind, you do not care for him at any rate. You shall help me then. What do you say?”
“How can I help you?” I repeated. “Have I not already done all that I can by refusing to see him? What more can I do?”
“It was all a mistake—a stupid mistake, that idea of mine,” she cried, passionately. “Men are such fools. I ought not to have tried to keep you apart. He has been grim and furious always because he could not see you. I have had to suffer for it. It has been hateful. Oh, if you want to escape the greatest, the most hideous torture in this world,” she cried, passionately, her thin voice quavering with nervous agitation, “pray to God that you may never love a man who cares nothing for you. It is unbearable! It is worse than hell! One is always humiliated, always in the dust.”
I was very sorry for her, and she could not fail to see it.