But he only shuddered again, and looked at her with almost terror in his eyes, as though he dumbly loathed her.
“Have I forfeited your love, Alfred?” she asked humbly.
“I dislike being touched.”
“You will break my heart,” she cried, with a dry sob in her throat. “My dear one, I have given you all—all I possess; I have braved everything for you. Has all your love for me gone?”
“I don’t want to talk sentiment,” he said, drawing back still a little farther from her, as though he shrank from being within her reach.
“Do you remember that night when we walked along the road by the fir-trees, and you told me you would always love me and take care of me? What have I done to make you change? I never cease thinking of you, day or night, but it is months since you gave me a loving word. What have I done to change you so?”
He looked down at her; for a moment there was an expression of hatred on his face.
“You are old—and I am young.”
“My heart is young,” she said piteously. Still he was merciless.
“It is your face I see,” he said, “not your heart.”