I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now,
Has even more luxury in it.
“Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you were pleasant enough,
But, oh, ’tis delicious to hate you!”
Viola’s beautiful eyes, black now with excitement, turned wildly on her lover’s face, and she staggered toward him with outstretched hands, faltering piteously:
“Dear Philip, I—I am ill!”
Silently he took the offered hands and led her to a large easy-chair. Then allowing the cold little fingers to drop from his chilly hold, he stepped back a pace and stood with his arms folded across his breast, regarding her with a pale, stern face, whose expression was more eloquent than words.