The silence deepened, till she broke it again—
“I see Mr. Radowitz sometimes. Won’t you like to know that he is composing a symphony for his degree? He is always working at it. It makes him happy—at least—contented.”
“Yes, I am glad. But nothing can ever make up to him. I know that.”
“No—nothing,” she admitted sadly.
“Or to me!”
Constance started. They had reached the last gate.
Falloden threw himself off his horse to open it and as she rode through, she looked down into his face. Its proud regularity of feature, its rich colour, its brilliance, seemed to her all blurred and clouded. A flashing insight showed her the valley of distress and humiliation through which this man had been passing. His bitter look, at once of challenge and renunciation, set her trembling; she felt herself all weakness; and suddenly the woman in her—dumbly, unguessed—held out its arms.
But he knew nothing of it. Rather her attitude seemed to him one of embarrassment—even of hauteur. It was suddenly intolerable to him to seem to be asking for her pity. He raised his hat, coldly gave her a few directions as to her road home, and closed the gate behind her. She bowed and in another minute he was cantering away from her, towards the sunset.
Connie went on blindly, the reins on her horse’s neck, the passionate tears dropping on her hands.