Don took both her hands and found that she was trembling. She looked aside, biting her lower lip. In vain she sought to control her emotions, knowing that they had finally betrayed her secret to this man in whose steadfast eyes she had long ago read a sorrowful understanding. At that moment she came near to hating Paul, and this, too, Don perceived with the clairvoyance of love. But because he was a very noble gentleman indeed, and at least as worthy of honour as the immortal Bussy d'Amboise, he sought not to advantage himself but to plead the cause of his friend and to lighten the sorrow of Flamby. "Have you tried hard not to care so much?"
Flamby nodded desperately, her eyes wells of tears.
"And it was useless?"
"Oh!" she cried, "I am mad! I hate myself! I hate myself!" She withdrew her hands and leapt on to the settee wildly, pressing her face against the cushions.
Don inhaled a deep breath and stood watching her. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tunic. "Have you considered, Flamby, what a hopeless thing it is."
"Of course, of course! I should loathe and despise any other girl who was such a wicked little fool. Dad would have killed me, and I should have deserved it!"
"Don't blame Paul too much, Flamby."
"I don't. I am glad that he can be so mean," she sobbed. "It helps me not to like him any more!"
"Paul is no ordinary man, Flamby, but neither is he a magician. How could you expect him to know?"
"He never even asked me."