The girl caught her breath, and looked from one to the other—from the painted and powdered woman to the man who had won her love. Her bosom heaved, and her flushed cheeks turned to the whiteness of marble.
"Jack, tell me—is it true?" she pleaded, struggling with each word. "I should not have come, but—but I received this an hour ago." She flung a crumpled letter at his feet, and he picked it up mechanically. "It said that I would find you here with your—your—" She could not utter the word. "I had to come," she added. "I could not rest. And now—who is that woman? Speak!"
No answer. Jack's lips and throat were dry, and a red mist was before his eyes.
"Is she your wife?"
"God help me, yes!" Jack cried, hoarsely. "I can explain. Believe me, Madge, I was not false—I told you only the truth. If you will listen to me for a moment—"
She shrank from him with horror, and the color surged back to her cheeks.
"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Let me go—this is no place for me! I pray heaven to forgive you, Jack!"
The look that she gave him, so full of unspeakable agony and reproach, cut him like a knife. She pressed one hand to her heart, and with the other tried to draw her cloak around her. She swayed weakly, but recovered herself in time. Jack, watching her as a man might watch the gates of paradise close upon him, had failed to hear a cab stop in the street. He suddenly saw Stephen Foster in the room.
"Is my daughter here?" he excitedly demanded.
Madge turned at the sound of her father's voice, and sank, half-fainting, into his arms. Tears came to her relief, and she shook with the violence of her sobs.