"You were only—fooling—only playing with me? I might have known——"
"No, I wasn't playing with you. I—couldn't bear to lose you—but," she stammered resolutely, "now—I must—— You've got to go. I don't know what has happened to me—I haven't any heart—I think—no heart—or soul——"
He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.
"Why couldn't you have let me go—without this?" he groaned. "It would have been easier for both of us."
She sat up slowly, still struggling to suppress the nervous paroxysms which shook her shoulders.
"Forgive me, Cort. You—you'll get along best without me. I've only brought you suffering. I'm a bird of ill-omen—which turns on the hand that feeds it. I was—was thinking only of myself. I wish I could make you happy—you deserve it, Cort. But I can't," she finished miserably, "I can't."
He did not move. It almost seemed as though he had not heard her. His voice came to her at last as though from a distance.
"I know," he groaned. "God help you, you love him." She started up as though in dismay, and then, leaning forward, buried her face in her hands in silent acquiescence. When she looked up a moment later he was gone.
CHAPTER XVII
OLD ROSE LEAVES