“She has lost her fame, and everything,” said Doane.
“All,” asked Connors, “her jewels, carriages, works of art?”
“Yes, all except the ‘Modern Hercules.’ So far, nothing has induced her to part with that. I have kept track of her affairs, awaiting my opportunity.”
“Doane,” appealed Connors, seriously, “I think there is true nobility yet in the character of that woman. Forego your vengeance.”
“Not I,” said the vindictive writer. “I am going to tempt her to sell the thing to me.”
“This is the very refinement of cruelty,” said Connors, in disgust. “You should have been a Spanish Inquisitor. You would have stood well with Torquemado.”
“Wouldn’t you like to share the treat with me?” said Doane.
“No,” said Connors, and the men parted, Doane going over in the direction of the place where Ouida lived.
The once proud and queenly sculptress sat alone, all pale and haggard, in her humble, ill-furnished abode, a prey to emotions that scorched her soul.