"A woman?" he echoed incredulously.
"Yes,—and a very good looking one,—don't you think so?" and she looked at him in insolent composure, while her vest,—torn open in the struggle,—displayed a glimpse of her neck and bosom.
Who, in this calm shameless thing,—proud at once of her beauty, and her shame, would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin of other years? With an ejaculation of contempt and anger, Dermoyne turned away from her, and approached the bed of Alice.
Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek upon the pillow, her lips apart, and with a ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and sunny hair.
Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at the sight. There are emotions upon which it is best to drop the vail, for words are too weak to picture their awful intensity.
He called her name, "Alice!" and spreading forth his arms, he fell insensible upon the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the dead girl.
Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly surveyed the scene, with her eyes shadowed by her uplifted hand:—
"I believe upon my soul, he did love her!" was her comment, and a tear shone in her eye.
The key turned in the lock, and presently a man with flushed face, and unsteady step, appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur Conroy.
"Halloo! what's up?" he cried, with a thick utterance.—"That you Divy?" and staggering over the floor, he attempted to put his arm about her neck.