She drank the chartreuse very slowly, and seemed to be reflecting, and a change came over her face. It softened as much as a painted face can soften under dyed hair.
"Dearie," she said, "it makes me sick to see you like the rest."
"I never pretended to be anything different."
"But you was different," she asserted. "I know you was different."
How could she have divined the change in Julian that one night of the
Empire had wrought?
"I say," she went on, and her voice was trembling with eagerness, "you've got to tell me somethin'."
"Well?"
"That night I—I—it wasn't me made you different, was it?"
And as she spoke Julian knew that it was she. Perhaps a fleeting expression in his face—telling naked truth as expressions may, though words belie them—made her understand, for her cheeks turned grey beneath the paint on them.
"I wish I'd killed myself long ago," she said in a whisper.