She—a lady!—a proud English lady! She covered her face with her hands. What had her anguish of mind been before, when compared with this! She had suffered hurt to her pride the day after he had kissed her, but now that seemed as nothing balanced with such hideous disgrace.
She moaned and rocked herself to and fro. Wild thoughts came—where was the pistol? She would end her life.
She looked everywhere, but it was gone.
Presently she crouched down in a corner like a cowed dog, too utterly overcome with shame and despair to move.
And there she still was when Gritzko entered the room.
She looked up at him piteously, and with unconscious instinct tried to pull together her torn blouse.
In a flash he saw what she thought, and one of those strange shades in his character made him come to a resolve. Not until she should lie willingly in his arms—herself given by love—should he tell her her belief was false.
He advanced up the room with a grave quiet face. His expression was inscrutable. She could read nothing from his look. Her sick imagination told her he was thus serene because he had won, and she covered her face with her hands, while her cheeks flamed, and she sobbed.
Her weeping hurt him—he nearly relented—but as he came near she looked up.
No! Not in this mood would he win her! and his resolve held.