"They—have been here!" The words came upon the crest of the last sob.
"They—who?" Thornly's eyes contracted.
"Mr. Devant and the one he calls Katharine."
"Great heavens! And you let them in?"
"They found the key and came in." Thornly muttered something inaudibly. "They wanted to see your pictures; they saw everything, and me!" Again the misery spread over the vivid face. Thornly was unable to take his eyes from that pitiful gaze, but for a moment his own position in this play held part.
"What did they say?" he asked at length.
"Mr. Devant said nothing! I cannot remember what she said—but whatever it was, it made me know that she thinks me—oh! what can I say?—something too awful to bear! And you, you knew what women like her might think! That is why you made me promise not to tell; that is why you kept the door locked! You knew how the people like her would scorn me! and yet you would not save me! Oh! I know it was because of your pictures! You would let folks like her think what they wanted to, so long as you got what you wanted!" The brief confidence in him was gone.
There was a power in this fury that shook Thornly as he listened. The blazing face of outraged womanhood confronted him, and the accusation brought truth and torment with it.
"Get what I wanted?" he groped blindly in his soul for an honest answer as to what he had wanted.
"Yes. What you wanted! You wanted my face, because it is beautiful; because I was like this place, the Hills and dunes! You thought me like them, just a thing to put upon your canvas to make you rich and famous! But I am a girl, like that girl up at Bluff Head! I am as good as she!"