She sobbed softly and wept and while she did so the loveliness, which had left her for a little while, returned to her like light to a grey and darkened sky. Oh, how beautiful she seemed with the abundant locks in disorder over her tear-stained face, how beautiful beyond imagining! My heart melted as I studied her; I could think of nothing else except her surpassing charm and glory.
“I pray you, do not weep,” I said; “it hurts me and indeed I am sorry if I said anything to give you pain.”
But she only shook that glorious hair further about her face and behind its veil wept on.
“You know, Ayesha,” I continued, “you have said many hard things to me, making me the target of your bitter wit, therefore it is not strange that at last I answered you.”
“And hast thou not deserved them, Allan?” she murmured in soft and broken tones from behind that veil of scented locks.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because from the beginning thou didst defy me, showing in thine every accent that thou heldest me a liar and one of no account in body or in spirit, one not worthy of thy kind look, or of those gentle words which once were my portion among men. Oh! thou hast dealt hardly with me and therefore perchance—I know not—I paid thee back with such poor weapons as a woman holds, though all the while I liked thee well.”
Then again she fell to sobbing, swaying herself gently to and fro in her sweet sorrow.
It was too much. Not knowing what else to do to comfort her, I patted her ivory hand which lay upon the couch beside me, and as this appeared to have no effect, I kissed it, which she did not seem to resent. Then suddenly I remembered and let it fall.
She tossed back her hair from her face and fixing her big eyes on me, said gently enough, looking down at her hand,