“When—when—did you come?” she faltered, in a dying voice.
“I only reached Washington an hour ago. Father died at Carlsbad, and mother and I brought him home at once for burial. The funeral will be at noon to-morrow.”
Viola shuddered at his words. At noon to-morrow she was to be married! What a strange coincidence! How was she going to tell him the awful truth?
Despair made her reckless, desperate, cruel.
There was no time to break it gently, for at any moment Philip might arrive—Philip, his successful rival.
She caught her breath with a great strangling gasp of fear, and pushed him back with frantic, white hands as he leaned forward to offer a caress.
“Do not touch me—do not touch me! I—I—love—you no longer, Florian!” she cried out wildly.
“Viola!”
“It is true,” she went on cruelly. “You stayed away so long that my fancy for you died. I do not think it ever was real love, for—for—my heart soon turned to another—and—and—you must go away now, Florian, and there is no use getting angry and reproaching me—it is too late to do anything but forgive me and wish me joy! My wedding-cards are out—and—I am to be married at noon tomorrow!”
Was ever such cruel truth blurted out so rudely to a fond, trusting lover?