Then I held the hand tight
between both of mine as I asked simply, looking into her eyes:
"Do you understand me now?"
Another silence.
"My revenge," she breathed.
I nodded and again pressed her hand to my lips.
"Yes, Desiree. We are not children. I think we know what we
mean. But you have not told me. Did you mean what you said that
day on the mountain?"
"Ah, I thought that was a play!" she murmured.
"Tell me! Did you mean it?"
"I never confess the same sin twice, my friend."
"Desiree, did you mean it?"
Then suddenly, with the rapidity of lightning, her manner
changed. She bent toward me with parted lips and looked straight
into my eyes. There was passion in the gaze; but when she spoke
her voice was quite even and so low I scarcely heard.
"Paul," she said, "I shall not again say I love you. Such words
should not be wasted. Not now, perhaps; but that is because we
are where we are. And if we should return?
"You have said that nothing is worth a serious word to you; and
you are right. You are too cynical; things are bitter in your
mouth, and doubly so when they leave it. Just now you are amusing
yourself by pretending to care for me.
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