"I have—with all my heart and soul. And, now that I think of it, I have given you more—I have given you all that goes with love—an unselfish admiration; a quick sympathy in your perplexities; quiet solicitude in your silences, in your aloof and troubled moments." She leaned nearer, a brighter flush on either cheek:
"Louis, I have given you more than that; I gave you my bodily self for your work—gave it to you first of all—came first of all to you—came as a novice, ignorant, frightened—and what you did for me then—what you were to me at that time—I can never, never forget. And that is why I overlook your injustice to me now!"
She sat up on the sofa's edge balanced forward between her arms, fingers nervously working at the silken edges of the upholstery.
"You ought never to have doubted my interest and affection," she said. "In my heart I have not doubted yours—never—except to-night. And it makes me perfectly wretched."
"I did not mean—"
"Yes, you did! There was something about you—your expression—when you saw me throwing roses at everybody—that hurt me—and you meant to."
"With Querida's arm around you, did you expect me to smile?" he asked, savagely.
"Was it that?" she demanded, astonished.
"What?"
"Querida's arm—" She hesitated, gazing straight into his eyes in utter amazement.