“Sin? How absurd you are! Why, what sin have I committed?”
“That clandestine marriage, May.”
“Now what nonsense, dear. It wasn’t my fault, as I told you before. You don’t know what love is. I do, and I loved poor, dear little Louis. I couldn’t help it, and he made me marry him.”
“Oh, May, May!”
“I tell you, I was obliged to marry him. One can’t do as one likes, when one loves. You’ll know that some day. But, I am glad.”
“May!” cried Claire reproachfully.
“So I am. Why, he’ll come and fetch me away from my miserable tyrant, and we can have little pet blossom away from Fisherman Dick’s, and take a cottage somewhere, and then I can sing and play to baby, while dear old Louis reads the Italian poets to me, and goes on with his painting.”
A piteous sigh escaped from Claire Denville’s lips as she fervently breathed in wild appeal:
“My God, help me!” And then—“It is too hard—too hard. What shall I do?”
A change came over the scene. The picture May Burnett had painted dissolved in the thin air, and she turned quickly upon her sister.