“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“One pays, Eliot.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, yes, one pays. But, in this particular instance, I thought it was I who paid and you who took delivery of the goods.”
She sprang up.
“Then you were wrong!” she exclaimed in low, passionate tones that, in spite of himself, moved him strangely. “If you paid, I paid, too—every day of my life. Oh, I had my punishment”—with a little laugh that held more anguish than any tears. “Full measure, pressed down, running over.”
He bent his sombre gaze on her.
“I don’t think I understand,” he said slowly.
“Don’t you?” With a swift movement she thrust back the loose tulle sleeve which veiled her arm, uncovering the ugly, rust-coloured scar which marred its whiteness.
“That—that—?” He stammered off into a shocked silence, his eyes fastened on the scar, so unmistakably that of a burn.