“You are not intruding, and I had hoped that you would come,” she said, without evasion. “For, Monsieur, I feel that I ought to say something to you very seriously.”
Her manner, in its decision and thoughtfulness, alarmed me.
“I have things, too, which I wish to talk over with you, in the uttermost seriousness. I am a little afraid of that conversation,” I said, looking down, “because we are going to disagree. My mind is made up to certain things, Mademoiselle, and I do not think you can change it.” I added, looking up into the sadness of her eyes, “Will you grant me a favor—a last favor. There is so little time that is left us. Wait until to-morrow.”
She shook her head.
“My conscience reproaches me for putting it off as I have done. Do not make it any harder.”
“If it is to be only a memory,” I said, “let the memory be complete. It is something even to have had a memory of you. Please grant my request.”
I doubt whether she would have yielded even then, though I saw her breast rise and her eyes close at my voice, had I not brought forward the locket, saying:
“Mademoiselle, I came to bring you this. I found it on your chair.”
Her hand went to her dress spasmodically, and the color left her face with the violence of her emotion.