And she stood, her white nervous lips moving in silence, her fine eyes fixed straight before her as though looking into the Unknown, horrified, transfixed.
Chapter Thirty.
Mijoux Flobecq.
“Lola,” he cried at last, unable to stand the sight of her tears and despair, and equally unable to restrain—himself longer. “Lola! Let me help you—let me know the real facts, however ugly they may be—and I will get you out of this difficulty! I implore you to do this, because—ah! you force me to confess to you, though I have believed myself strong enough to preserve my secret—because I love you!”
She started quickly and drew back, staring at him in surprise through her tear-dimmed eyes.
“You!” she gasped.
“Yes,” he answered in a quick, low whisper, grasping her small hand in his. “I know that I have no right to speak to you thus, but I cannot hold my secret longer. My love for you is forbidden, and besides I know, alas! too well, that your affection is centred upon another—Henri Pujalet—the man who loves you.”
Mention of her lover’s name seemed to electrify her. She snatched away her hand, turned her head and ejaculated: