“My dear Dudley!” she cried in alarm. “Why, whatever is the matter? You are ill.”
He closed the door behind her; then, still holding her hand, looked straight into her dark eyes, and said:
“I have come to you, Claudia, to bid you farewell—to see you for the last time.”
“What do you mean?” she gasped, her cheeks turning pale in an instant at his announcement.
“I mean that our love must end to-day. That in future, instead of entertaining affection for me, you must hate me, as one guilty and unworthy.”
“I really don’t understand, dear,” she answered, bewildered. “You are not yourself to-day.”
“Alas! I am too much myself,” he answered in a low hoarse voice. “I am here, Claudia, to make confession to you. I would, indeed, crave your forgiveness, but I know that that is impossible.” He was holding her hand in his convulsive grasp, and his eyes were riveted on hers in a fierce look full of a passionate devotion.
“Confession?” she asked quickly. “What secrets have you from me? Has some other woman usurped my place in your heart? If so, tell me, Dudley. Do not hesitate.”
“No,” he answered, trying to preserve an outward calm, “it is not that. I love no woman but your own dear self. Surely you do not doubt me?”
“I have never doubted you. Sometimes I have been jealous—madly jealous, I confess—but always without reason, for you have always been loyal to me.”