"No one can reform you if you won't reform yourself," replied Stephen, coldly; and there he spoke the truth.
"Who was it who has put in our prayer, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil'? Here I live in temptation: I am always thrown into evil. If I were not—" Her voice was very quiet, and had a strange pathetic note in it. It ceased, and then there was silence.
Stephen felt as if a hand were laid on his lips and crushed down the voice that kept struggling from his heart. A second more, and then the girl laughed suddenly.
"Oh, I was stupid! I did not know what I was saying, did not mean it anyway. It's quite right for you to stick to your claim and the idea you started with, and so on. You will make a great success if you do, and that is all you want!"
Her tone was jesting and cynical as ever now—the usual hardness had come back to her face. The moment of submission, of confidence, of repentance, had passed—a moment when she could have been moved and won to any life he wished, and he had lost it. He felt it. Yet how could he have done otherwise?
"Forget what I said—quite," she added; "and go now. It's getting late, and I want to get down to the saloons."
A thrill of horror went through Stephen, as she knew it would. He gazed at her blankly with a horrible feeling, as if he were murdering somebody, clutching at his heart.
"What are you waiting for?" she said, impatiently. "Why don't you hurry back to your claim?"
"Katrine ... I—" he stammered, staring at her, but even as he looked a great wall of gold seemed to rise between them and shut her from him. "Forgive me," he muttered brokenly; "I can't give it up now."
"Good-night," said Katrine, and he turned and fumbled for the door handle and went out.