She bows her head. Words will not come.
"You dropped it. I asked the woman to give it me," says her husband. "Lauraine, don't stay here for—for my sake; if it will comfort you or—him—go."
A flush comes over the white, sad face, then fades and dies away. "My place is by you," she answers.
"By me?" he echoes bitterly. "By the wretch whose selfishness and brutality have ruined your life? My God!"
There is a long silence. He takes her hands and looks at her. "Even my death cannot atone now. I thought it might. It is true, is it not? You do—love—him?"
"Yes," she answers simply. "But why speak of that now? The past is over and done with. You told me once I was only strong because I had been untempted. Ah! how little you knew!"
"That he should die," mutters Sir Francis. "Young—brave—hopeful. For me—it is no matter. How is it, Lauraine? Tell me all!"
"He was shot," she says, marvelling how she can speak so calmly—how dull and far away seems everything in and out of her life. "In Paris. Some dispute arose between him and—and a friend of Lady Jean Salomans'. They met in the Bois, and Keith was dangerously wounded. They say now there is—no hope."
Oh, the weariness of the voice, the anguish of the white, sad face.
"She," mutters Sir Francis. "Was this her vengeance?" Then he is silent again.