“Only since yesterday.”
“And you remain some time?”
“I am leaving to-day––for France.”
At that a touch of color left her face, or was it that a darkening shadow fell upon the house and garden, momentarily chastening the outlook?
“For France?” she repeated.
Her lips quivered. Something seemed to still the beating of his heart.
“Constance––what is it?” he half-whispered.
She stepped forward suddenly, her hands outstretched.
“I wronged you!” she cried. “I wronged you. I thought the disgrace was yours. Oh, do not speak!” she added, passionately. “I have suffered for it––and now, would you mind––please––leaving me?”
“You thought the disgrace was mine!” he repeated, slowly. “Not my”––he broke off abruptly. “And 496 you suffered––for it?” he said, wonderingly. “Then you––” He arose quickly and approached her, a new expression transfiguring his bronzed and worn young face.