The serenity and pride in her were shaken to their roots; she was humbled in her own sight; she was ashamed of the momentary delirium to which she had abandoned herself; she strove in vain to regain composure and indifference: come what would, he was near to her as no other man had ever been.
She drew her domino about her with a shudder, though the blood coursed like fever in her veins.
"You must hate me—or forget me," she murmured, as she tried to take her mask from his hand. " You know it is no use. I could not live—poor. Perhaps you are right; all those things are habits, follies, egotisms—oh, perhaps. But such as they are— such as I am—I could never live without them."
He stood erect, and his face grew cold.
"That is your last word, Madame?"
"Yes. What else should I say? No other—"her voice faltered a moment and grew very weak. "No other man will ever be anything to me, if that content you. But more—is impossible."
He bowed low in silence, and gave her up her mask.
