“You are so cold,” she sobbed. “Oh, George, you will break my heart!”
“You seem to be chiefly overcome by pity for yourself,” he answered cruelly. “If you have anything else to say, I will wait. If not——”
She roused herself and sat up, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands clasped passionately together.
“Oh, do not go! Do not go—it kills me to let you go.”
“Do you think it would? In that case I will stay a little longer.” He turned away and went to the window. For some minutes there was silence in the room.
“George——” Constance began timidly. George turned sharply round.
“I am here. Can I do anything for you, Miss Fearing?”
“Cannot you say you forgive me? Can you not say one kind word?”
“Indeed, I should find it very hard.”
Constance had recovered herself to some extent, and sat staring vacantly across the room, while the tears slowly dried upon her cheeks. Her courage and her pride were alike gone, and she looked the very picture of repentance and despair. But George’s heart had been singularly hardened during the half-hour or more which he had spent in her house that day. Presently she began speaking in a slow, almost monotonous tone, as though she were talking with herself.