“Dearest,” he murmured, and then words seemed to fail him.
“But?” and she looked him through and through, a terrible suspicion entering her soul, “but——”
“But,” he replied, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the girl. “This from the one friend I thought I had on earth, from the one man I had learned to love and respect. Not your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my senses or are you?”
“You cannot be my wife,” he reiterated desperately.
“So you think 1 am not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically. “It is true I am only Number II. on the Left, and yet I was born a lady. I am your equal in social standing, and no breath of scandal has ever soiled my name. You have made love to me for two years, you have vowed you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart is given to you, you turn round and coolly say, ‘You are not good enough to be my wife.’”
“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until the blood seemed to stand still within them, “this is torture to me.”
“And what do you suppose it is to me?” she retorted. “It is not only torture but insult. You have brought me to this. I loved you so intensely and trusted you so implicitly, I never paused to think. I have lived like a blind fool in the present, happy when with you, dreaming of you when away, drifting on, on, in wild Elysium, hoping—yes, hoping, I suppose—that some day I might be your wife, or if not that, at any rate that I could still continue to respect myself and respect you. To think that you, you, whom I trusted so much, should insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“My darling, I cannot marry,” he replied. “It is not your position, it is not the stage, it is nothing to do with you that makes me say so. Had it been possible I should have asked you to be my wife a year ago or more, but, little girl, dearest love, how can I tell you?” and almost choking with emotion he added, “I am a married man.”
She left his side and staggered to the other end of the boat, where, throwing herself upon the cushions, she wept as if her heart would break.