“No,” he answered, bitterly. “Why should I forgive you?”
“I know I have not deserved your forgiveness,” she said, piteously. “I have been very, very wrong—I have done the worst thing I ever did in my life—I have been heartless, unkind, cruel, wicked—but—but I never meant to be——”
“It is small consolation to me to know that you did not mean it.”
“Oh, do not be so hard!” she cried, the tears rising in her voice. “I did not mean it so. I never promised you anything—indeed I never did!”
“It must be a source of sincere satisfaction, to feel that your conscience is clear.”
“But it is not—I want to tell you all—Grace has not told you—I like you as much as ever, there is no difference—I am still fond of you, still very fond of you!”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, George, are you a stone? Will nothing move you? Cannot you see how I am suffering?”
“Yes. I see.” He neither moved, nor bent his head. His lips opened and shut mechanically as though they were made of steel. She looked up again into his face and his expression terrified her.
She turned away, slowly at first, as though in despair. Then with a sudden movement she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in the cushions, while a violent fit of sobbing shook her light frame from head to foot. George stood still, watching her with stony eyes. For a full minute nothing was audible but the sound of her weeping.