“Can’t you guess, Isabel?” he groaned.
“I think so, dear, but is it inevitable?”
“Quite.”
“Yet—one never knows—a woman sometimes says ‘No’ when she means ‘Yes.’”
“But not a woman like Aimée Le Breton.”
“I made too sure,” said Dan miserably. “I went up like a rocket—and I have come down like a stick. Of course, she is miles too good for me. I knew that all along.”
“Is there someone else?” asked Isabel.
“Oh, no,” answered Dan. “She is not going to marry. Oh! she is just the sort of woman to remain a virgin—so pure—so beautiful. Our Blessed Lady must have had a look like hers. Oh, if you could have seen her!—her sweet compassion, her sublime dignity. She is not for me, or for any man. What a blind fool I was! And I gave her pain. I saw that she suffered to see me suffer. I ought to have known—yes, I certainly ought to have spared her. I had a sense of having committed sacrilege in offering myself to her. That was how I felt about it, how I shall always feel about it. There are women who are like angels, and to ask such to marry is a sacrilege. She—Miss Le Breton—is the kind of woman who becomes a nun, and I was too blind to see it, though I, of all people, ought to have known it, for I painted her very soul in my Madonna. But I do not regret having met her, though it has well-nigh broken my heart. I shall be a better man for having known such a beautiful, pure nature. For her sake I shall live purely, and strive for ideals. That she has done for me. So, sister mine, don’t shed tears.”
Isabel was crying.
But in the sitting-room Miss Linkin was triumphant.