"But it is not I——" I stammered.
She caught her breath in surprise, straightened, and slowly retraced her steps to her vacant chair.
"Ah! So it is that?" she said slowly, drawing her chair close to my own. Then she seated herself, rested her chin in her hands, and regarded me for some moments intently.
"So you have come for—for him?" she resumed, her breast heaving. "I am right, am I not?"
"He loves you," I declared. "Do you think I am blind as to your love for him? You who came to greet me to-night out of your suffering?"
For some moments she was silent, her fingers pressed over her eyes.
"Do you love him?" I insisted.
"No, no," she moaned. "It is impossible."
"Do you know," I continued, "that he has not slept or hunted or smoked for a week before he was forced to go to Paris? Can you realize what he suffers now during days of exhausting rehearsals? He came to me a wreck," I said. "You have been cruel and you have——"
Again she had become deathly pale. Then at length she rose slowly, lifted her head proudly, and led the way back to the library fire.