"I' faith, Madame," he said, "then you will pardon me, if my
dull wits cannot accompany you there."
Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet,
childlike, almost tender, called him back.
"Sir Percy."
"Your servant, Madame."
"Is it possible that love can die?" she said with sudden,
unreasoning vehemence. "Methought that the passion which you once
felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing
left of that love, Percy. . .which might help you. . .to bridge over
that sad estrangement?"
His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to
stiffen still more, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless
obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy blue eyes.
"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" he asked coldly.
"I do not understand you."
"Yet `tis simple enough," he said with sudden bitterness,
which seemed literally to surge through his words, though he was
making visible efforts to suppress it, "I humbly put the question to
you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your
ladyship's sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew
the devilish sport which you played so successfully last year? Do you
wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that
you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a
troublesome lap-dog?"
She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she
looked straight at him, for it was thus she remembered him a year ago.
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