She had lost the prize she had risked so much to win—lost the love that was more to her than Heaven.
He despised her now, had thrown her aside in scorn.
Tomorrow the whole world would find it out, and mock at her misery, pointing the gibing finger of scorn at the young bride jilted at the altar.
She rose at last, muttering four baleful words:
“How I hate him!”
Crossing to a desk, she caught up a pen and dashed off nervously a few incoherent words:
“Dear Florian,—He—the man I was to marry—was in the next room, and heard all our conversation tonight. We quarreled bitterly, and—our engagement is broken off. There will be no wedding to-morrow, unless you will forgive me and take his place. Will you, Florian, to save me the notoriety of a broken-off marriage? Besides I hate him now—and it will be easy to teach me to love you again as I used to do.
“Will you come at once and see me, dear Florian, or send a message by bearer?
“Your repentant
Viola.”