“Know? Know what?” she interrupted, with an attempt at her former scornfulness; but in her heart she was dismayed and terribly uneasy.
“All right!” he said. “You think I’m ashamed. By Heaven, you’ll see! I’m proud of it! It’s the finest thing I ever did in my life—to love you!”
“Oh, stop!” she whispered.
“No! I’d like every one in the world to know it. I’m proud of it! I told you I was at your feet, and I meant it. I’ll—”
“Oh, please!” she said.
He stopped, looking at her as if stricken dumb by some unbearable revelation. All that was hard and proud had vanished from her face, leaving a tragic and exquisite loveliness. She stood there, in her distress, like a lost princess, bewildered and solitary, but unassailable in her mystic innocence.
“Look here!” he said. “I—” His voice was so unsteady that he could not go on for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how—how young you are. If you’ll forgive me—”
She shook her head mutely. He waited in vain for a word, but none came. Then he turned and walked away, and she went back into her own room and locked the door.
She, too, had not realized how young she was, how untried her strength. This overwhelmed her; she was so miserable, so shaken, that now at last the tears came in a wild storm. Her pride was mortally wounded. It was a disgrace to her that Sam Randall should think of her like that. It was cruel, horrible, unforgettable, that the first words of love she had ever heard from a man should be his words. His talk of love was a mockery, an insult.
Yet the memory of his set face and his unsteady voice caused her a strange pain that was not anger.