He bowed and waited, while she went on, frankly:
“As a child I always wanted most ardently whatever was refused to me, and brought every energy to bear until I attained its possession, only to find out afterward that I cared nothing for it whatever, and had only struggled for it out of the inherent perversity of a nature that adored the unattainable. My nurse related that I often cried for the moon.”
She paused a moment, startled at his deepening pallor, then made the confession:
“I met you several times in society, Professor Desha, and I did not actually give you a second thought until a rival belle, a spiteful girl, told me frankly how very strongly you had expressed your disapprobation of me in general, deploring the fact that any true man’s heart could be wrecked by such a heartless butterfly. In my anger and resentment I marked you at once for a victim of my charms.”
“Ah!” he cried, in actual pain at her confession.
“It was wicked, and I am ashamed of it now, but I promised to be frank, and I will not spare myself,” cried Viola; adding: “Yes, I angled for your heart with all the arts of the finished coquette, but you withstood me so valiantly that you awakened that trait in my nature, that longing for whatever was denied me. It grew on me till it possessed me, fooled me, made me believe you actually necessary to my heart. Pique and vanity masqueraded in the garb of love. I won you, and believed that I was happy. Then came that night!”
He was about to speak, but she held up her hand, saying:
“Wait till I have done. Will you listen to the story of what happened that night after you left me?”
He bowed his head, and Viola began by telling him, to his great surprise, how she had tried to recall Florian and failed.
“In my bitter humiliation I felt I could not face the sensation of tomorrow. I went out and threw myself beneath the wheels of a passing trolley car to end my life.”