She had taken everything
he had, and what had she given him? Nothing.
In the moonlight she saw as if with new eyes that he had changed. The
young contours of his cheek were less round, his eyes had a deeper
expression. He had suffered, and he had not complained.
"Theo," she said suddenly, smitten with pity, "I--have been horrid to
you. I--I am so frightfully selfish. Will you forgive me?"
His eyes glistened as he looked at her.
"Forgive you? You angel!"
"No, no. I _have_ been horrid. But--I will be nicer. And--you are so
good to me."
He was silent for a moment, then he said slowly:
"Brigitte--you are never horrid. But--if you do not--care for me at
all--will you tell me now?"
She was abashed and then shivered. Here was the chance she had longed
for. He would, she knew, give her up without a word if she asked him to;
and she had also learned to know that whatever Joyselle might have done
in like case a few months before, he would not refuse to see her now if
she told him that she and Theo had agreed to separate.
Here was freedom to go her own way, unrebuked by her own conscience or
the conscience of the man she loved.
Theo had turned away and stood with folded arms, awaiting her answer.
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