“I thought he deserved it. That is over. After to-night, it is not probable that we shall meet again. I hope that we shall not; as, doubtless, is your own mind.”
She kept looking at me with that new deep look which I had seen when she first entered the room.
I was moved, and I saw that just at the last she had spoken under considerable strain. “Mrs. Falchion,” said I, “I have THOUGHT harder things of you than I ever SAID to any one. Pray believe that, and believe, also, that I never tried to injure you. For the rest, I can make no complaint. You do not like me. I liked you once, and do now, when you do not depreciate yourself of purpose.... Pardon me, but I say this very humbly too.... I suppose I always shall like you, in spite of myself. You are one of the most gifted and fascinating women that I ever met. I have been anxious for my friend. I was concerned to make peace between you and your husband—”
“The man who WAS my husband,” she interrupted musingly.
“Your husband—whom you so cruelly treated. But I confess I have found it impossible to withhold admiration of you.”
For a long time she did not reply, but she never took her eyes off my face, as she leaned slightly forward. Then at last she spoke more gently than I had ever heard her, and a glow came upon her face.
“I am only human. You have me at advantage. What woman could reply unkindly to a speech like that? I admit I thought you held me utterly bad and heartless, and it made me bitter.... I had no heart—once. I had only a wrong, an injury, which was in my mind; not mine, but another’s, and yet mine. Then strange things occurred.... At last I relented. I saw that I had better go. Yesterday I saw that; and I am going—that is all.... I wished to keep the edge of my intercourse with you sharp and uncompanionable to the end; but you have forced me at my weakest point....” Here she smiled somewhat painfully.... “Believe me, that is the way to turn a woman’s weapon upon herself. You have learned much since we first met.... Here is my hand in friendliness, if you care to take it; and in good-bye, should we not meet again more formally before I go.”
“I wish now that your husband, Boyd Madras, were here,” I said.
She answered nothing, but she did not resent it, only shuddered a little.
Our hands grasped silently. I was too choked to speak, and I left her. At that moment she blinded me to all her faults. She was a wonderful woman.