"I keep seeing those people dancing—and hearing the band. I dropped a little bag—did anybody find it?"
"Yes, I have it here." He drew it out of his pocket, and put it in her hand, which feebly grasped it.
"Rocca gave it to me at Florence once, I am very fond of it. I suppose you wonder that—I loved him?"
There was a strange and tragic contrast between the woman's weakness, and her bitter provocative spirit; just as there was between the picturesque strength of Buntingford—a man in his prime—and the humble, deprecating gentleness of his present voice and manner.
"No," he answered. "I am glad—if it made you happy."
"Happy!" She opened her eyes again. "Who's ever happy? We were never happy!"
"Yes—at the beginning," he said, with a certain firmness. "Why take that away?"
She made a protesting movement.
"No—never! I was always—afraid. Afraid you'd get tired of me. I was only happy—working—and when they hung my picture—in the Salon—you remember?"
"I remember it well."