“And you don’t try to argue, or give reasons, or convince me. Or listen to my reasons. You only want to play on my feelings!”
“You have no feelings!” cried Claudine. “You have no heart! You don’t care!”
“Oh, don’t I?” said Andrée, and she suddenly began to sob. “Go away! Go away! I’ve told you—now let me alone!” she sobbed.
Claudine crossed the room to the bureau and began moving about the little jars and bottles with trembling hands.
“I won’t—reproach you,” she said. “I won’t.... I’ll try to understand.... I want to see—Mr. Stephens. Where does he live?”
“I shan’t tell you.”
“Yes, you must. You can trust me, Andrée. I won’t—I promise you I won’t tell anyone else. I won’t do anything to stop you.... I only want to hear him. I want to hear—all he has to say.
Andrée hesitated a moment.
“Very well!” she said at last. “I think I’d like you to. I’ll trust you.... He’s at the Biltmore.... I’m not afraid of anything you can say to him!”
“No,” said Claudine, dully. She was folding up some bits of ribbon, quite mechanically, and putting them into the bureau drawer. The room was very untidy; there lay Andreé’s pretty dress across a chair, and her beribboned petticoat fallen on the floor. And her slippers on the dressing-table.... Was it worth while to pick them up? Was it worth while ever to draw another breath? She looked at Andrée, lying face downward on the bed, and her heart was not moved. No; this was the last possible sensation, the very end of everything; she was going to sink now and be drowned. She went out of the room and closed the door.