I shook my head.
“Think!” she urged. “I have wealth, position, and—and men say I have beauty. I am at your feet. See...!”
And, casting herself upon her knees, she lifted my hand to her lips, covering it with passionate kisses.
“Madame,” I said, withdrawing my hand firmly, “this interview is painful. The tête-à-tête we had some months ago amused us; it had a savour of romance, but I did not dream that you had taken my foolish words seriously. Let us part, and forget all that has passed between us to-day.”
For a moment she was pale and mute, her hands clenched, her body rigid as marble. Then, struggling to her feet, she gave vent to a sudden passionate outburst, tearing the furs from her throat.
“You cast me aside!” she cried. “You!—who declared your affection for me—prefer that red-faced, uncouth furrier’s wench! So! We shall see!”
“Pray calm yourself,” I exclaimed.
“Calm myself! Davolno, Anton Prèhznev! Have I not been befooled? This latest idol of yours has gone to Siberia, and you will follow! Good! When you are toiling in the gloom of the lead-mines beyond Irkutsk you will perhaps remember that you forsook the woman who loves you better than her life—that she whom you insulted was Agraféna Teréshkevna.”
With a momentary glance at the mirror over the mantel-shelf she rearranged her bonnet. Then, mortified and affronted, she bowed stiffly, swept past me, and disappeared, slamming the door after her.
Six weary, anxious weeks passed.