"Yes," said Mary gently; "he sacrificed himself, for another!"
"He sacrificed himself—for me. Ah, say it! say it!"
Mary was greatly puzzled and at the same time moved—filled with a supreme compassion for this woman who was yet such a child, so dainty and frail a thing to confront the deadly knowledge that she had made a shipwreck of a life, of lives.
And yet, was there not also a ring of exultation, a challenge in her last words?
At least, her sorrow was ennobled. She was invested with a sombre glory, as one who had inspired a rare and perfect devotion.
And, after all, had she not already been considered enough?
A silence ensued, during which Eve seemed to be wrapped in steadfast thought.
She grew calmer, picking up her bouquet, and sedulously arranging its disordered foliage; while Lord Overstock, who had arrived with Mary's fan, poured forth elaborate apologies, protesting that she must give him another dance—the second extra—to make up for the time he had lost.
Already the music was beginning for the next dance, and people passed in couples, laughing and talking gaily, a motley procession, on their way into the ball-room.
"I thought your brother would have told you," said Mary softly, bending over her programme and gathering her skirts together with a suggestion of departure.