“Then—then—” she stammered, completely bewildered, “if you know that you wounded me so, why do you come back? Why do you speak to me now? There is nothing more to be said between us.”
“Yes, there is; much more.”
She drew back, frowning, on the alert to go. For a second he thought he was to lose this precious and unlooked-for chance of righting himself with her.
“Sit down,” he said entreatingly; “sit down; I must speak to you.”
She turned from him and sent a quick glance toward Benito. She was going.
“Mariposa,” he said, desperately catching at her arm, “please—a moment. Give me one moment. You must listen to me.”
She tried to draw her arm away, but he held it, and pleaded, genuine feeling flushing his face and roughening his voice.
“I beg—I implore—of you to listen to me. I only ask a moment. Don’t condemn me without hearing what I have to say. I behaved like a blackguard. I know it. It’s haunted me ever since. Sit down and listen to me while I try to explain and make you forgive me.”
He was really stirred; the sincerity of his appeal touched the heart, once so warm, now grown so cold toward him. She sat down on the bench, at the end farthest from him, her whole bearing suggesting self-contained aloofness.
“I know I shocked and hurt you. I know it’s just and natural for you to treat me this way. I was mad. I didn’t know what I was saying. If you knew how I have suffered since you would at least have some pity for me. Can you guess what it means to give a blow to the being who is more to you than all the rest of the world? I was mad for that one evening.”