“I suppose you thought it unwise to wait for the bluebird when you had beguiled me into breaking a promise, when I was trapped, defeated,—”
Her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand resting against her check, the light rippling goldenly in her hair, her eyes bent upon me inquiringly, mournfully,— mournfully, as I had seen them—where?—once before! My heart leaped in that moment, with that thought.
“I remember now the first time!” I exclaimed, more angry than I had ever been before in my life.
“That is quite remarkable,” she said, and nodded her head ironically.
“It was at Sherry’s; you were with Pickering—you dropped your fan and he picked it up, and you turned toward me for a moment. You were in black that night; it was the unhappiness in your face, in your eyes, that made me remember.”
I was intent upon the recollection, eager to fix and establish it.
“You are quite right. It was at Sherry’s. I was wearing black then; many things made me unhappy that night.”
Her forehead contracted slightly and she pressed her lips together.
“I suppose that even then the conspiracy was thoroughly arranged,” I said tauntingly, laughing a little perhaps, and wishing to wound her, to take vengeance upon her.
She rose and stood by her chair, one hand resting upon it. I faced her; her eyes were like violet seas. She spoke very quietly.