cticed
it often, being essentially Democritian--not to say Rabelaisian--in her
philosophy; but she did it very well. Like every other emotion, it
became her.

Guy hardly glanced at her, and never answered a word.

She rose to go; then turned all at once to try one effort more. "Yes, we
must part," she said. "I know it now. But give me a kind word to take
with me. I shall be so lonely, now that you are my enemy. Will you not
say you wish me well? Ah! Guy, remember all the hours that I have tried
to make pleasant for you. Say 'Good-by, Flora,' only those two little
words, gently." Her voice was broken and uncertain, but full of music
still, like the wind wandering through an organ.

Just at that moment I opened the door. (I had not an idea Livingstone
was not alone.) I closed it before either had remarked my entrance, but
not before I had caught sight of a very striking picture.

Guy was leaning one arm against the mantel-piece; the other was crossed
over his chest: on that arm Flora was clinging, with both her hands
clenched in the passion of her appeal. Her slight bonnet had fallen
rather back, showing the masses of her glorious hair, and all her
flushed cheeks, and her eyes that shone with a strange lustre, though
there were tears still on their long, trailing lashes. I saw the
impersonation of material life, exuberant and vigorous, yet delicately
lovely--the Lust of the Eye incarnate.

He stood perfectly still, making no effort to cast her off. Had he done
so with violence, it would scarcely have evinced more repulsion than did
the expression of his face. There was no more of yielding or softening
in the set features and severe eyes than you would find in those of a
corpse three hours old, whose spirit has passed in some great anger or
pain. Can you guess what made him more than ever hard and unrelenting?
He was thinking _who_ tried to win a kind farewell from him six months
ago, and utterly failed. Should her rival have this triumph, too, over
the dead?

As he answered deliberately, each slow word shut out another hope, like
bolts shot, one by one, in the lock of a prison door.

"I remember nothing of the past except your last act, for which I will
never, never forgive you. I form no wish for your welfare or for the
reverse. There shall not stand the faintest shadow of a connecting link
that I can break asunder. Between you and me there is the gulf of a
fresh-made grave, and no thought of mine shall ever cros