“Ah,” she said, “speak to me, answer me; why don't you say something to me? I thought that once your eyes sought mine in the boat”—then as she saw him still standing awkward and silent, all her wild passion burst out—“Brice, Brice, I love you, I love you. And you, you hate me.” He tried to stop her.
Her voice sank again. “Oh, yes, yes; you hate me, else why would you go away without one word to me? Baldwin has told you of—of—of something. It is all true, quite true, and I am wicked, wicked; no woman could have been worse—and you hate me.”
She released her hold upon his arm, and walking over to the window leant against it and wept passionately.
He went over to her and placed his hand upon her shoulder.
“Look here, Loisé, I'm very, very sorry I ever came here in the Malolo”—her shaking figure seemed to shrink at the words—“for I love you too, but, Loisé—your husband was my father's oldest friend—and mine.”
The oval, tear-swept face was dangerously close to his now, and set his blood racing again in all the quick, hot madness of youth.
“What is that to me?” she whispered; “I love you.”
Brice shut his fists tightly and then—fatal mistake—tried to be angry and tender at the same moment.
“Ah, but Loisé, you, as well as I, know that among English people, for a man to love his friend's wife——”
Again the low whisper—“What is that to me—and you? You love me, you say. And, we are not among English people. I have my mother's heart—not a cold English heart.”