herself. "As for my griefs, I know how to manage them. It was all a mistake: you can do nothing for me, unless you petrify me into a marble companion for your Cleopatra there, and I am not of her sisterhood, I do assure you. Forget this foolish scene, my friend, and never let me see a reference to it in your eyes when they meet mine hereafter."
"Since you desire it, all shall be forgotten," answered the sculptor, pressing her hand as she departed, "or, if ever I can serve you, let my readiness to do so be remembered. Meanwhile, dear Miriam, let us meet in the same clear, friendly light as heretofore."
"You are less sincere than I thought you," said Miriam, "if you try to make me think that there will be no change."
As he attended her through the antechamber, she pointed to the statue of the pearl-diver.
"My secret is not a pearl," said she; "yet a man might drown himself in plunging after it."
After Kenyon had closed the door, she went wearily down the staircase, but paused midway, as if debating with herself whether to return.
"The mischief was done," thought she; "and I might as well have had the solace that ought to come with it. I have lost—by staggering a little way beyond the mark, in the blindness of my distress—I have lost, as we shall hereafter find, the genuine friendship of this clear-minded, honorable, truehearted young man, and all for nothing. What if I should go back this moment and compel him to listen?"
