Rosalie dropped her flower-laden skirt, a yellow shower falling at her feet, and buried her face in her hands.
‘Oh,’ she groaned, ‘Isaac told you that! He—he said—oh, how could he!’
The beautiful shoulders heaved, tears trickled through her fingers, but Richard steeled his heart against her. Let her suffer—let her cry! These selfish tears could not expiate the things that she had done. Tears and subterfuges were woman’s natural weapons, but they should not avail her. She should be made to realise her own vileness.
‘Do you deny it?’ he said sternly.
Rosalie dropped her hands, and raised her head: her lip was still quivering, but her eyes shone through the tears.
‘I deny nothing,’ she said; and without another word walked away from him, down the slope, and across the field, passing through a gate at the further end.
Richard stood looking after her until she was out of sight; then his eyes reverted to the heap of primroses lying at his feet—a tumbled heap, sweet, and dewy, and fresh—just as they had fallen from her gown.
Mechanically he stooped and began to gather them together, but presently he threw back again the flowers he had picked up.
‘What should I do with them?’ he murmured, half aloud. Straightening himself he passed his hand across his brow, and looked round him with a blank stare. ‘What have I done?’ he said.