"And her name?"
"I do not know it."
"And so he was amusing himself with you all that time?" she says.
"You can call it that, if it so pleases you."
"And he told you this himself?" she says.
But I do not answer, and she goes on like one who is thinking hard and deep.
"I do not believe it. It is you whom he loves. . . . . I have watched him———"
I turn my head away, that she may not see the pallor that has crept over my face. Others were deceived by his manner to me, then; I have not been the only mistaken one.
"It is all the same," she says, indifferently. "I told you that you should never be Paul's wife, and you never shall, but neither shall any other woman."
"Are you mad?" I ask contemptuously, for the shameless, godless selfishness of the creature angers me deeply. Does she give one thought to him? She would trample his life beneath her feet rather than see another woman take the place she once filled; that which she calls love is one corrupt, foul adoration of self.
"I am glad you love him," she says, with a malicious cruelty of look and word that sets ill upon her fair, innocent-looking beauty. (No wonder Paul thought he had found his spotless white flower at last when he beheld her; no angel could boast a more perfectly fair face!) "Glad that there is some one who will suffer as I have suffered, endure what I have endured, weary for him as I have wearied."
"Hush!" I say, rising and lifting my hand; "do not dare to link my name with yours, or call your wicked passion for Paul Vasher love! You, who would sacrifice his whole life to grasp your own paltry, pitiful wish—you dare to call that loving him?
