"You insisted on an adieu," she murmured, painfully.
"I am coming back in a week," said Vesper, stubbornly.
The hand that held her prayer-book trembled. "You have told him that he must not return?" and she turned to Agapit, and lifted her flaxen eyebrows, that seemed almost dark against the unearthly pallor of her skin.
"Yes," he said, with a gusty sigh. "I have told him, but he does not heed me."
"It is for the honor of our race," she said to Vesper.
"Rose," he said, keenly, "do you think I will give you up?"
Her white lips quivered. "You must go; it is wrong for me even to see you."
Vesper stared at Agapit, and seeing that he was determined not to leave the room, he turned his back squarely on him. "Rose," he said, in a low voice, "Rose."
The saint died in her, the woman awoke. Little by little the color crept back to her face. Her ears, her lips, her cheeks, and brow were suffused with the faint, delicate hue of the flower whose name she bore.
A passionate light sprang into her blue eyes. "Agapit," she murmured, "Agapit," yet her glance did not leave Vesper's face, "can we not tell him?"