"Yes, Roddy, I have called upon you to say farewell. I am going and we shall never see each other again."
"Pauline!"
"I am going away to die. I should have liked to close my eyes in the old house, but for my father's sake, I am willing to depart and make a show for my life. It is useless, however. I shall die."
"Dear Pauline, do not speak so. Your case is by no means hopeless. A change of air and scene will revive you. We shall both see better days again."
"You may, Roddy, and that shall be my dying prayer, but not I. Alas! not I."
Still holding her white thin hand in both his, Hardinge threw himself at her feet, weeping and beseeching that she would recall these words of doom.
Pauline sat upright in her seat and, in a strangely quavering voice, exclaimed:
"Rise, Roderick Hardinge. Do not kneel to me. It is I should be prostrate before you. I called you to say farewell, but there is more. I could not leave without asking your forgiveness."
"My forgiveness, Pauline? What wildness is this?"
"Yes, your forgiveness. I have been false to you."