“Well, when you—you kissed me the other night, you did not really mean it, did you? I mean you only did so for a freak, or from the impulse of the moment, not because you loved me? Don’t be afraid to tell me, because if it was so, I shall not be angry; you see you have so much to forgive me for. I am breaking faith, am I not?” And she looked him straight in the face with her piercing eyes.
Ernest’s glance fell under that searching gaze, and the lie that men are apt to think it no shame to use where women are concerned rose to his lips. But he could not get it out—he could not bring himself to say that he did love her—so he compromised matters.
“I think you were more in earnest than I was, Florence.”
She laughed, a cold little laugh, that somehow made his flesh creep.
“Thank you for being candid: it makes matters so much easier, does it not? But, do you know, I suspected as much, when I was standing there by that head to-day, just at the time that you took Eva’s hand.”
Ernest started visibly. “Why, your back was turned!” he said.
“Yes, but I saw what you did reflected in the crystal eyes. Well, do you know, as I stood there, it seemed to me as though I could consider the whole matter as dispassionately and with as clear a brain as though I had been that dead woman. All of a sudden I grew wise. But there are the others waiting for us.”
“We shall part friends, I hope, Florence?” said Ernest anxiously.
“O yes, Ernest, a woman always follows the career of her old admirer with the deepest interest, and for about five seconds you were my admirer—when you kissed me, you know. I shall watch all your life, and my thoughts shall follow your footsteps like a shadow. Good-night, Ernest, good-night;” and again she smiled that mocking smile which was so like that on the features of the dead woman, and fixed her piercing eyes upon his face. He bade her good-night, and made his way homewards with the others, feeling an undefinable dread heavy on his heart.