"Oh," she said, "how could you!—when I came to you—feeling—afraid of myself! I know you now. You are what they say you are."
"What do they say I am?" he stammered.
"Horrid—I don't know—wild!—whatever that implies.... I didn't care—I didn't care even to understand, because I thought you generous and nice to me—and I was so confident of you that I came with you and told you I had had some champagne which made my head swim.... And you—did this! It—it was contemptible."
He bit his lip, but said nothing.
"Why did you do it?" she demanded, dropping her arms from her face and staring at him. "Is that the sort of thing you did abroad?"
"Can't you see I'm in love with you?" he said.
"Oh! Is that love? Then keep it for your models and—and Bohemian grisettes! A decent man couldn't have done such a thing to me. I—I loathe myself for being silly and weak enough to have touched that wine, but I have more contempt for you than I have for myself. What you did was cowardly!"
Much of the colour had fled from her face; her eyes, bluish underneath the lower lids, turned wearily, helplessly in search of Kathleen.
"I knew I was unfit for liberty," she said, half to herself. "What an ending to my first pleasure!"
"For Heaven's sake, Geraldine," he broke out, "don't take an accident so tragically——"