She obeyed him silently, mechanically, not replying or looking at him or at Harry. Her throat like her eyes was dry, and parched, as though with fever, but her hands, like her heart, were ice cold. In the sanctuary of her own room with the doors closed, she threw herself headlong upon the bed, racked for a while by shuddering soundless sobs—and then after a while merciful tears came.
"Jim," she whispered hopelessly into the darkness. "Jim, forgive me!"
Her fingers groped for her crucifix and clung to it, seeking strength and courage. And after a long while the spasm of weeping stopped and she lay motionless and soundless, scarcely breathing. She knew in her heart that what she had done was best for Jim's soul's good and her own, but her heart cried out against the cruelty of it. And yet she was sure that if she had followed him beyond the studio door, she would have gone out with him into the world, glorying in her shame. She had chosen. Her one brief, gorgeous, pitiful romance was over.
And what was there left for her here at the studio but the shattered fragments of ruined affections? She had lived a lie—was living it now—like her father.... She started up at the horror that she had forgotten and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect her thoughts; then she rose with an effort, groped for the matches and lighted her candle. Her father? By his own admission—her father no longer. Who was she then? A waif? The daughter of de Vautrin? Her mirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale, somber, but with blue-black eyes that gazed steadily from their swollen lids. Strength she had prayed for, and courage to do what was right to do, and she needed them both now....
THE MIRROR SENT HER BACK A HAGGARD REFLECTION, PALE AND SOMBER
There was no sound from the studio. She glanced at her clock. For hours it seemed she had lain upon her bed of pain.
With a new resolution she bathed her face and wrists in cold water, then went through the kitchenette into the studio to find Barry Quinlevin. He was not there, but her husband was,—crouched in the armchair by the table and the whisky bottle was empty.
She shuddered a little but approached him resolutely. He tried to rise but, with a dull laugh and fumbling the arm of the chair, fell sideways into a grotesque attitude.
"Where is——?" she began, and halted.