“You have not!” she made passionate denial. She freed herself, and stepped back from him; but he came on until he was close in front of her as she pressed back among the ferns. He looked bewildered—furious.
“You don’t need me!” she denied him. “We have given all we can. It is different. I have nothing more for you.” She put her hands behind her.
“Florence, Florence!” He spoke her name threateningly. “That is just talk! Why didn’t you say at once you were tired of me!”
“I have told you the truth.”
“Oh, the truth! Words! Good God, what woman ever talked reason to the man she loved!”
She gave a little, bitter shrug, as if his words had frozen her in the midst of the sun and flowers.
“You have nothing to regret!” he said, savage with self-pity. “There’s no blame—Lord, I don’t blame you! But why didn’t you tell me—” he stared at her, white with his dreadful realization—“why didn’t you tell me before?”
Scarcely less pale, she looked back at him. What was it that had already happened? Had everything been done too late?