"Rosalie!" he cried, and sprang to his feet.
With a piteously pathetic cry, she flung herself on her knees beside the tailor's bench where he worked every day, and, burying her face in her arms as they rested on the bench, wept bitterly.
"Rosalie!" he said anxiously, leaning over her. "What is the matter?
What has happened?"
She wept more bitterly still; she made a despairing gesture. His hand touched her hair; he dropped on a knee beside her.
"Oh, I am so ashamed, ashamed! I have been so wicked," she murmured.
"Rosalie, what has happened?" he urged gently. His own heart was beating hard, his own eyes were responding to hers. The new feelings alive in him, the forces his love had awakened, which, last night, had kept him sleepless, and had been upon him like a dream all day—they were at height in him now. He knew not how to command them.
"Rosalie, dearest, tell me all!" he persisted.
"I shall never—I have been—oh—you will never forgive me!" she said brokenly. "I knew it wasn't true, but I couldn't help it. I saw her— the woman—come from your house, and—"
"Hush! For God's sake, hush!" he broke in almost harshly. Then a better understanding came upon him, and it made him gentle with her.
"Ah, Rosalie, you did not think! But—but it was natural you should wish to see me. . . ."