“Geoffrey!” she gasped at last. In a half-fearful whisper she repeated my name, adding, “So you have found me!”
With a quick, impetuous movement she walked unevenly towards me, with rustling skirts and outstretched hands. It seemed to me, as I looked at her, as if my soul flew towards her, spreading at first like a wave around the outline of her head, and then, attracted by the whiteness of her breast, descended into her.
“Yes,” I said, slowly and gravely. “I have found you, Ella.”
“Ah, no!” she cried, advancing so close to me that the well-remembered odour of sampaguita intoxicated me. I felt her warm, passionate breath upon my cheek. “Do not call me longer by that false name. Forget it—forget it all, and call me by my right name—Elizaveta.”
“It is impossible,” I answered.
“No, do not say that,” she cried hoarsely. “I—I know I have deceived you, Geoffrey. I lied to you. But forgive me. Tell me that you will some day forget.”
“Think,” I said, in a low, reproachful tone, my heart filled with grief to overflowing—“think how you have wrecked my life,” I urged. “You masqueraded before me as a plain English girl; you married me and allowed me to adore you—ah! better than all the world besides—until you grew tired and left our poor, matter-of-fact home to reassume your true station—that of a Grand Duchess. You never loved me; but it amused you, I suppose, to become the wife of a man who was compelled to earn his livelihood. The economy you practised while with me was a new sensation to you, and your—”
“Stop!” she cried vehemently, putting up her tiny hand to my mouth, as had been her habit long ago when she wished to arrest the flow of my words. “Stop! I cannot bear it! I tell you I did love you, Geoffrey. I love you now, dearer than life.”
“Then why did you practise such base deception?” I demanded. “Why did you leave me and cast aside my wedding-ring?”
“I—I was compelled,” she faltered.