"No, I am not your enemy," she continued. "There is enough of war in the world, is there not, Mr. Renault? And I shall soon be on my way to Canada. Were I your enemy, how impotent am I to compass your destruction—impotent as a love-sick maid who chooses as her gallant a gentleman most agreeable, gently bred, faultless in conduct and address, upon whose highly polished presence she gazes, seeking depth, and finds but her own silly face mirrored on the surface."
She turned from me and raised her head, gazing up through interlacing branches into the blue above.
"Ah, we must be friends, Carus," she said wearily; "we have cost each other too dear."
"I have cost you dear enough," I muttered.
"Not too dear for all you have taught me."
"What have I taught you?"
"To know a dream from the reality," she said listlessly.
"Better you should learn from me than from Walter Butler," I said bluntly.
"From him! Why, he taught me nothing. I fell in love again—really in love—for an hour or two—spite of the lesson he could not teach me. I tell you he taught me nothing—not even to distrust the vows of men. If it was a wrong he dared to meditate, it touches not me, Carus—touches me no more than his dishonoring hand, which he never dared to lay upon me."
"What do you mean?" I asked, troubled. "Have you taken a brief fancy to another? Do you imagine that you are in love again? What is it that you mean, Elsin?"