“Yes,” she assented. Then she whirled about on the music stool. “I came down to see you.”
“Why?”
Both spoke with a simple directness—with the manner of those dealing in ultimate moments with the unmistakable facts.
“You told me last night that you were doing as you do because of what I have said. I cannot take the responsibility. I’d rather that you thought even worse of me than you do. Oh!” she cried, bending her head down on her hands, which clasped the rack of the piano. “I am, false—false! I cannot be true even in my falsity. All that I have been telling you is not the truth.”
“Yes?” he interrupted, eagerly.
“When you judged me—when you told me—or showed me what you thought of me—I recognized what I was doing—what I was. I saw I was false. My pride drove me to do something else. It was a punishment for myself—a price I must pay. As falsely as you thought I tried to please you—as falsely, really, I made myself hateful to you. I told you every untrue, miserable thing of which I could think. It seems as if any little remnant of dignity which I had demanded it. But to have you say that you were influenced by my lies—were going to give up so much that was splendid and great—because of them! Oh, you must believe me now. I could not bear it.”
“Then you don’t think I am altogether contemptible?”
“I think you are the finest and best and strongest man I know,” she said, bravely.
On one knee, beside her, he had his arm about her.
“Bless you, darling,” he cried. “Then I can tell the truth, too. I think that you are the dearest and sweetest woman, and I love you—love you!”