“Nothing,” he returned harshly. “Only reminded me that a man is a double fool who tempts Providence a second time.”
Ann quivered as though he had struck her.
“I—I don’t understand,” she said, her voice hardly; more than a mere thread of sound.
He gave a short laugh.
“Don’t you? Will you understand if I tell you this—that I’m shut out from the ‘happy garden’ by the gates of memory, now and always.”
She made no answer. For the moment she was physically unable to reply. But she understood—oh, yes, she understood quite well. He had repented that short, poignantly sweet moment of last night, repudiated all that it implied. He did not trust her—did not believe in her! And he was telling her in just so many words.
The revulsion of feeling left her stunned and dazed. She had been so entirely happy—had already given herself in spirit in response to his unspoken demand, and now with a single roughly uttered phrase he had closed the gates—those unyielding gates of memory—and thrust her outside.
And then her pride came to her aid. He should never know—never guess—how he had hurt her. With the pluck that is born of race, she smiled at him quite naturally.
“Well, you needn’t have closed your gates so hard on my wee bit of heliotrope! Look, you’ve crushed it completely!” She pointed to where it lay, broken and bruised, between them.
He picked it up, and tossed it aside—a poor little corpse of heliotrope.