“Beatrice—my Beatrice!” he said, “Beatrice Despard—”
He spoke low, bending his head to hers. Her head sank toward his breast.
“Beatrice, do you now reproach me?” he murmured.
She held out her hand, while tears stood in her eyes. Brandon seized it and covered it with kisses. Despard saw this. In the midst of the anguish of his face a smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a clouded sky. He looked at these two for a moment.
Langhetti’s eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton and her son were talking apart. Despard looked upon the lovers.
“Let them love,” he murmured to himself; “let them love and be happy. Heaven has its favorites. I do not envy them; I bless them, though I love without hope. Heaven has its favorites, but I am an outcast from that favor.”
A shudder passed through him. He drew himself up.
“Since love is denied me,” he thought, “I can at least have vengeance.”