A dull sense of disappointment gnawed at her heart. That was all. The worst would come later, as she knew by experience.
And then she saw a vision of herself dancing and yelling, laughing at foul jests, with her hat awry and her skirts held high--a drunken wanton! She, the "lofty-minded saint" with the "brow divine," a drunken wanton--nothing more and nothing less.
Now she knew why he had stood there with his face as white as the tablecloth--why that sobbing groan of pain had burst from his lips. And it was pity for him as much as shame of herself that made of this moment a boiling hell.
"How is he bearing it?" she asked, stammering.
"You can guess how," he replied, "but I believe I shall pull him through."
"Oh, uncle ... I ... didn't ... I didn't want to do it ..." she cried, sobbing.
"I know, child; I know. He told me all."
For an instant her wounded pride flamed up within her. She stooped, and gathering together a handful of the bits of torn paper, she held them out to him on her open palm.
"And you dared to offer me that?"
"What was I to do, my dear? And what am I to do with you now?"