“Good God! What manner of woman are you?” he cried hoarsely. “A sorceress? A—but no, it is not true!”
She smiled. “All women are sorceresses. They feel. Men only think. Poor Frederic! You try to hate him, James, but I have watched you when you were not aware. You search his face intently, almost in agony—for what? For the look that was his mother's—for the expression you loved in———”
He burst out violently.
“No! By Heaven, you are wrong there! I am not looking for Matilde in Frederic's face.”
“For his father, then?” she inquired slowly.
The perspiration stood out on his brow. He made no response. His lips were compressed.
“You have uttered her name at last,” she said wonderingly, after a long wait for him to speak.
Brood started. “I—I—oh, this is torture!”
“We must mend our ways, James. It may please you to know that I shall overlook your mental faithlessness to me. You may go on loving Matilde. She is dead. I am alive. I have the better of her there, aïe? The day will come when she will be dead in every sense of the word. In the meantime, I am content to enjoy life. Frederic is quite safe with me, James; very much safer than he is with you. And now let us have peace. Will you ring for tea?”
He sat down abruptly, staring at her with heavy eyes. She waited for a moment and then crossed over to pull the old-fashioned bell-cord.