"I do not think," she continues, "that I ever loved you in the sense that women can love; but you had the power to make me suffer, to feel your oblivion, to remember you when you had forgotten me. When I went into the world again I heard of your successes with others, and gradually I came to see you in your true light, and, almost, the drunken brutality of Prince Sabaroff seemed to me a manlier thing than your half-hearted and shallow erotics had been. Now, when we meet again by pure hazard in the same country house, you do me the honor to offer me your hand after eight years. I can only say, as I have said before, that it is seven years too late!"
"Too late, only because Lord Brandolin now is everything to you."
"Lord Brandolin may possibly be something to me in the future. But, if Lord Brandolin did not exist, if no other living man existed, be sure that it would make no difference to me—or to you."
"Is that your last word?"
"Yes."
Pale and agitated as no other woman had ever seen him, Gervase bows low and leaves her abruptly, pushing open one of the glass doors on to the garden and closing it with a clash behind him.
Xenia Sabaroff goes towards the large library, her silvery train catching the lights and shadows as she goes.
Brandolin meets her with his hands outstretched.
"You are content, then?" she asks.
"I am more than content,—if I may be allowed to atone to you for all that you have suffered."