“Oh, don’t say any more!” cried the woman, with a break in her voice. “Say that you don’t love me—that is all there is to say! And you will never respect me again! I have been a fool—I have ruined everything! I have flung away your friendship, that I might have kept!”
“No,” he said.
But she rushed on, vehemently—“At least, I have been honest—give me credit for that! That is how all my troubles come—I say what is in my mind, and I pay the price for my blunders. It is not as if I were cold and calculating—so don’t despise me altogether.”
“I couldn’t despise you,” said Montague. “I am simply pained, because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to.”
Mrs. Winnie sat staring ahead of her in a sombre reverie. “Don’t think any more about it,” she said, bitterly. “I will get over it. I am not worth troubling about. Don’t you suppose I know how you feel about this world that I live in? And I’m part of it—I beat my wings, and try to get out, but I can’t. I’m in it, and I’ll stay in till I die; I might as well give up. I thought that I could steal a little joy—you have no idea how hungry I am for a little joy! You have no idea how lonely I am! And how empty my life is! You talk about your fear of making me unhappy; it’s a grim jest—but I’ll give you permission, if you can! I’ll ask nothing—no promises, no sacrifices! I’ll take all the risks, and pay all the penalties!”
She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile. He was watching her, and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood mount from her throat to her cheeks. At the same time came the old stirring of the wild beasts within him. He knew that the less time he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of them.
He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when suddenly there came a knock upon the door.
Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet. “Who is that?” she cried.
And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, and came toward her.