"A reconciliation?" he exclaimed incredulously.
She nodded. "You seem uncertain of your own mind—your letters, you know, were rather childish and vacillating."
"I know my own mind now, thank God," he answered, his voice tense. "If I didn't know it before, it was because your beauty had befuddled it into imbecility. Oh! you may smile, with all the assumed credulity you can muster, but nevertheless you know in your own heart that I speak the truth. I did love you—loved every part of you, from your glorious hair to your slender arched feet. Loved your proud, cold face, that can glow warm enough upon occasion—I've seen it glow for me—and often; and your lips that were made for kisses—and your arms—and your flawless shoulders, white as marble, and soft as——"
Her derisive laugh broke in on him.
"Be careful, sir, or the recollection of my charms may cause you to change your mind again," she cautioned.
For a space he was silent. And she was silent, too—waiting.
At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
"No," he said; "the time when you held me by a smile and a nod has passed. You are just as beautiful, just as alluring, but your body is soiled with the touch of another's hands. Your lips, your hair, your arms, your shoulders—everything—have all been defiled by Amherst's caresses, and by yours."
"Am I then so polluted?" she queried. "At least," slowly stretching out her lithe limbs and looking herself over, "I see no trace of it—neither do I feel it in me."