“La Gioia is here!” she repeated in a low voice, as though unable to fully realise all that the terrible announcement meant. “Well, how do you intend to act?”
“My actions will be guided by circumstances,” he replied. “And you?”
She was silent. The stillness of the night was broken only by the dismal cry of a night-bird down near the lake.
“I think it is best that I should die and end it all,” she replied, in a hard, strained voice.
“Don’t talk such nonsense!” he said impatiently. “You are young, graceful, smart, with one of the prettiest faces in London. And you would commit suicide. The thing is utterly absurd!”
“What have I to gain by living?” she inquired again, that question being apparently uppermost in her mind.
“You love young Chetwode. You may yet marry him.”
“No,” she answered with a sigh; “I fear that can never be. Happiness can never be mine—never.”
“Does he love you?” inquired the Major, with a note of sympathy in his voice.
“Love me? Why, of course he does.”