"Yes, true. You were innocent once, you had a mother who loved you, and I suppose you once had a religion. Will you tell me, thinking of the mother who loved you, of Christ who died for you, whether what you say about Mr. Faversham is true?"
A change came over Olga Petrovic's face; her eyes were wide open with terror and shame. For some seconds she seemed fighting with a great temptation, then she rose to her feet.
"No," she almost gasped; "it is not true!" She simply could not persist in a lie while the pure, lustrous eyes of the girl were upon her.
"Then why did you tell me?"
"Because, oh, because I am mad! Because I am a slave, and because I am jealous, jealous for his love, because, oh——!" She flung herself into the chair again, and burst into an agony of tears.
"Oh, forgive me, forgive me for deceiving you!" she sobbed presently.
"You did not deceive me at all. I knew you were lying."
"But—but you seemed—horrified at what I told you!"
"I was horrified to think that one so young and beautiful like you could—could sink so low."
"Then you do not know what love is!" she cried. "Do you understand? I love him—love him! I would do anything, anything to win him."