“Shall I tell you all?”
“Oh, yes, if you care to—not that it concerns me now.”
He idly picked up his brush, charged with colour as it was, and let it fall full on the drawing in front of him.
She caught his hands.
“Oh, don’t, don’t spoil your drawing because of me! And listen to me, for it does concern you, since I love you, and you say that you love me. I must tell you, I must explain what I have done. Oh, don’t look at me so! You were my lover a moment ago, and now you are my judge.”
“A woman has no right to let a man——”
“No, I know she hasn’t. I ought not to have let you tell me that you cared for me. But I am so glad you did! It will be something to remember afterwards. I must tell you my story—my true story! I told you once, you remember, the story of Phœbe Elles—the woman who left her husband, because he was so unkind to her——”
“Oh, so that is your story, is it? And the one you told me about yourself—your pretended self——”
“That I invented. I had to tell you something——” He rose from his chair. She went on—“Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I have not told you the truth——”
“So it seems!” he replied, coldly, opening the door, and going out. “Good-night.”