Still
Varillo kept silence. Angela's heart beat so loudly that she could
almost hear it in the deep silence of the room. Every fine little
nerve in her body was strained--to the utmost height of suspense,--
she was afraid to look at her lover, or disturb the poise of his
mental judgment by the lightest movement. And he? Thoughts, black as
the chaos of cloud she had so powerfully portrayed, were stirring in
his soul,--thoughts, base and mean and cowardly, which, gradually
gathering force as he dwelt upon them, began to grow and spring up
to a devilish height worked into life and being by a burning spark
of jealousy, which, long smouldering in his nature, now leaped into
a flame. No trace of the wicked inner workings of his mind, however,
darkened the equanimity of his features, or clouded the serene, soft
candour of his eyes, as he at last turned towards the loving,
shrinking woman, who stood waiting for his approval, as simply and
sweetly as a rose might wait for the touch of the morning sun.
Slowly, and like little pellets of ice, his first words fell from
his lips,
"Did you do it all yourself?"
The spell was disturbed--the charm broken. Angela turned very white-
-she drew a deep breath--and the tension on her nerves relaxed,--her
heart gave one indignant bound--and then resumed its usual quiet
beating, as with a strong effort she gathered all her dignity and
force together, and replied simply,
"Can you ask?"
He looked at her.
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