"There's nothing between Olga and me," he said violently. "There never was—"
"Face powder," she repeated.
"Listen to me. You shall," fiercely. "You've got to know the truth now. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never has been another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have—from the first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here—in Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong. I wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of your fashionable set—to see the woman in you bud and blossom under the open skies away from the hothouse plants of your vicious circle. Even there at 'Wake Robin,' I wanted to tear you away from them. They were not your kind. In the end you would have been the same as they. That was the pity of it. Perhaps it was pity that first taught me how much you were to me—how much you were worth saving from them—from yourself. I seemed impossible. I was nothing to you then—less than I am now—a queer sort of an amphibious beast that had left its more familiar element and taken to walks abroad among the elect of the earth. But I loved you then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I hadn't meant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you know it—even though your smiles deride me; even though I know I've spoiled your idyl here and made a mockery of my own Fool's Paradise."
Her head was lowered now and he could not see her eyes, but he was sure they must be still laughing at him. When he had finished he released her and turned away.
"To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil," he said quietly. "I will give you money to buy clothes and put you on the train for Paris."
There was a long silence, broken by the sound of Père Guégou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The saffron heavens had changed to purple, and in the spire of the village campanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes of Philidor's doom. He did not see her face. He had not dared to look at it. But when the bell stopped ringing, Hermia's voice was speaking softly.
"Do you want me to go, Philidor?"
Her tone still mocked and he did not turn toward her.
"No—but you had better," he murmured.
"Suppose I refused to go to Paris. What would you do?"