“Ah!” she said slowly at length, “I know how fondly you love each other. I have myself experienced the same grief, the same bitterness as that which is rending your hearts at this moment, even though I am believed to be devoid of every passion, of every sentiment, and of every womanly feeling.”
“Let me go!” Liane exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, rising unsteadily from her chair. “I—I cannot bear it.”
“No, remain,” the woman said in a firm tone, a trifle harsher than before. “I asked you here to-day because I wished to speak to you. I invited the man you love, because it is but just that he should hear what I have to say.”
“Ah!” she sobbed bitterly. “You will expose me—you who have only just declared that you are my friend!”
“Be patient,” the other answered. “I know your fear. You dread that I shall tell a truth which you dare not face.”
She hung her head, sinking back rigidly into her chair with lips compressed. George stood watching her, like a man in a dream. He saw her crushed and hopeless beneath the terrible load upon her conscience, held speechless by some all-consuming terror, trembling like an aspen because she knew this woman intended to divulge her secret.
With all his soul he loved her, yet in those painful moments the gulf seemed to widen between them. Her white haggard face told him of the torture that racked her mind.
“Speak, Liane,” he cried in a low intense tone. “What is it you fear? Surely the truth may be uttered?”
“No, no!” she cried wildly, struggling to her feet. “No, let me leave before she tells you. I knew instinctively that, after all, she was not my friend.”
“Hear me before you judge,” Mariette exclaimed firmly.