"And I. You were cruel, dear."
"I had to be cruel. I feared that you—that I—"
She paused and he questioned gravely.
"I feared that you, too, might have misjudged me—there in the woods at
Sées—that I had cheapened myself to you—that I had been unwomanly."
"Hermia!"
"I don't know what possessed me after Olga appeared. She poisoned the very air with doubt. I was desperate. I didn't seem to care what happened. I don't know what I wanted. I think if you had taken me then and held me—as you do now—held me close to you and had not let me go, as you did, you might have had me to do as you willed. But you relinquished me—"
"I had to, dear."
"Yes, I understand now. I couldn't then. I wanted to hurt you—as I was hurt. Your sanity made me desperate. I couldn't understand why you should be so sane while I was not. You were greater than I—and though I loved you for it (O Philidor, how I loved you!) I meant that you should pay for my heart-throbs—that you should pay for Olga—for everything."
"I have paid."
"Forgive me. I suffered doubly in knowing that you suffered. I fled from you and hid my heart as a miser would buy his treasure. But your letters, forwarded from Paris, followed me. O Philidor! I did not read them—not at first. I saw Olga telling that story at the dinner table and my pride revolted. I put them away—unopened, and kept them concealed—from others, from myself and tried to forget them. I couldn't. They were you. I would take them out and look at them. I slept with them under my pillow. At last I could stand it no longer. I took them and disappeared for a whole day from the rest of my party. I read them alone on the summit of a mountain." She broke off with a sigh. "Ah me! If you had come to me there you would not need to have pleaded, Philidor."