For a moment they regarded each other silently. Since the night of that fateful masquerade they had not exchanged words, except such commonplaces as were made necessary by the presence of a third person. Now they were both prepared for a final reckoning: he with stern resolve stamped upon every feature; she with desperate defiance in look and manner.
“I think,” she said, with a movement toward the portierie, “that our conversation had better be continued there.”
He bowed a stately assent, and held back the curtains while she passed into the library.
She crossed the room with slow, graceful movements, and pausing before the hearth, turned her face toward him.
Feeling to her heart’s core the humiliation brought by the knowledge that this man, her accuser, had fathomed the secret of her past love for him; with the thought of the Francoises’ threat ever before her—Leslie Warburton stood there hopeless, desolate, desperate. She had ceased to struggle with her fate. She had resolved to meet the worst, and to brave it. She was the woman without hope, but she was every inch a queen, her head haughtily poised, her face once more frozen into pallid tranquility.
Standing thus, she was calm, believing that she had drained her bitter cup to its very dregs; that Fate could have no more poisoned arrows in store for her.
Ah, if she had known that her bitterest draught was yet to be quaffed; that the deadliest wound was yet to be inflicted!
She made no effort to break the silence that fell between them; she would not aid him by a word.
Comprehending this, after a moment of waiting, he said:
“Madam, believe me, I have no desire to do you an injustice. I have purposely avoided this interview, wishing, while my dead brother remained among us, to spare you for his sake. Now, however, it is my duty to fathom the mystery in which you have chosen to envelop yourself. What have you to say?”