He closed his
eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that
snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light
of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully.
"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "I swore to
you. . .once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your
plaything. . .it has served its purpose."
But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The
trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came
back into her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a
feeling that this man who loved her, would help her bear the burden.
"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows you have been
at pains to make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to
accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it
that, if you will. I wished to speak to you. . .because. . .because I
was in trouble. . .and had need. . .of your sympathy."
"It is yours to command, Madame."
"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can scarce believe
that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh
crazy.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215