Maurice shuddered at her tone; it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep.
"Dear Lucia," he said, "scold me, be angry with me. I should have told you."
She seemed to wake at the sound of his voice, and again that burning, painful flush covered her face and neck.
"Oh! Maurice," she cried, "it is you who should scold me. What must you think? But, indeed, I am not so bad as I seem."
"It is I who have been blind. I thought you had forgotten him."
"Forgotten him? So soon? I thought he could not even have forgotten me!"
Maurice clenched his hand. The very simplicity of her words stirred his anger more deeply against his successful rival. For her he had still nothing but the most pitiful tenderness.
"Some men, Lucia, love themselves too well to have any great love for another."
"But he did care for me. I want to tell you. I want you to see that I am not quite so bad—he did care for me very much, and I sent him away."
"You refused him?"