Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with the passions that stirred her breast.
“You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon,” she began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. “Why did you not tell me the rest?”
His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.
“The rest?” he said, his brow lowering.
“Yes,” she answered quickly; “the stain upon your name!––the garrison sold!––the soldiers killed!––murdered!––”
She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself––motionless he stood an instant––then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he paused, but she did not look up––could not! A moment; an eternity!
“Why don’t you go?” she cried. “Why don’t you go?”
The door opened, closed; she was alone.
Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still 343 indefatigable, entered by another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe her agitation.
“What, my dear!” he exclaimed cheerily. “Has he gone? Did you make up your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves for Mexico?”