Jacqueline made no reply to this,—and Elsie regarded the silence as sufficient provocation.
"You seem to think I have no feeling," said she. "I am as sorry about the poor fellows as you can be. But I cannot look as if I thought the day of judgment close at hand, when I don't, Jacqueline."
"Very well, Elsie. I am not complaining of your looks."
"But you are,—or you might as well."
"Let not that trouble you, Elsie. Your face is smooth, at least; and your voice does not sound like the voice of one who is in grief. Rejoice,—for, as you say, you have a right to yourself, with which I am not to interfere. We are old friends,—we came away from Lorraine together. Do not forget that. I never will forget it."
"But you are done with me. You say nothing to me. I might as well be dead, for all you care."
"Let us not talk of such things in this manner," said Jacqueline, mildly. But the dignity of her rebuke was felt, for Elsie said,—
"But I seem to have lost you,—and now we are alone together, I may say it. Yes, I have lost you, Jacqueline!"
"This is not the first time we have been alone together in these dreadful three days."
"But now I cannot help speaking."