‘It was inexcusable,’ she said, after a pause. It seemed to him that she was breathing quickly—perhaps with a just and natural anger.
‘I do not attempt to excuse it,’ he murmured.
‘I cannot even understand it,’ she pursued. ‘What had I done to you? How do my private concerns affect you?’
There was a long silence, and then Richard said, almost in a whisper:
‘I can make no excuse—I think I must have been mad! When I came to myself I felt—as if I could kill myself for my brutality to you. All day the shame of it has been eating into my soul—I feel branded, disgraced! I cannot rest until you tell me you have forgiven me.’
There was silence again, broken only by the faint warbling of a thrush singing to his mate in the warm dusk.
‘You ask a great deal,’ said Rosalie at last. ‘I scarcely know how I can forgive you.’
She saw the dark figure sway a little, but he spoke quietly:
‘I can only say that I would give my life to recall those insulting words of mine.’
‘Words!’ she repeated. ‘Words count for little! That you should think of me thus—that you should judge me so harshly!’