Thus he was as powerless as before. The maddening thought flashed through his mind that a plain, straightforward statement of facts to Hugh when first he had met her would have obviated his ruin and prevented his death.
To and fro he paced the studio in a frenzy of grief and despair.
The pretty model watched him for a moment, then, sinking upon a couch, and covering her face with her hands, burst into a torrent of tears. Unable to control her bitter sorrow, her pent-up feelings obtained vent in a manner that was heart-rending to the kind, sensitive man who stood before her.
“Dolly, I know what a terrible blow this is to you,” said he sympathetically, removing her hat, and tenderly stroking her hair. “You loved him?”
She did not answer at once, hesitating even then to admit the truth.
“Yes,” she sobbed at last, “I did. You little know what I have endured for his sake.”
“Ah! I can well understand. You loved him dearly, yet he left you for the woman who exercised a fatal fascination upon him. With scarcely a word of farewell, he cast your love aside and offered Valérie marriage. I know the depth of your disappointment and terrible sorrow. Don’t think that because I have never made love to you that I am utterly devoid of affection. I loved—once—and it brought me grief quite as poignant as yours; therefore I can sympathise with you.”
He spoke with sadness, and with a heavy sigh passed his hand with aweary gesture across his care-lined brow.
“It’s so foolish of me,” she murmured apologetically, in a low, broken voice. “I ought not to have made this confession.”
“Why not? I had noticed it long ago. Love always betrays itself.”