But as she put forth all these arguments to herself, trembling, she drew ever nearer and nearer to the door. “Red--red--and red. Stick to my colour: my colour--my coat, Markham, and the ribbon, her ribbon. I say red. Play, play--all play--always: amusement: her ribbon, red. No, no; not red, black, colour death--no colour: means nothing, all nothing. Markham, play. Gain or lose--all--all: nothing kept back. Red, I say; and red--blood--blood colour. Mother, mother! no, it’s black, black. No blood--no blood--no reproach. Death--makes up all--death. Black--red--black--all death colours, all death, death.” Then there was a little change in the voice. “Constance?--India; no, no; not India. Anywhere--give up everything. Amusement, did you say amusement? Don’t say so, don’t say so. Sport to you--but death, death:--colour of death, black: or red--blood: all death colours, death. Mother! don’t put on black--red ribbons like hers--red, heart’s blood. No bullet, no--her little hand, little white hand--and then blood-red. Constance! Play--play--nothing left--play.” Frances stood outside and shuddered. Was this, then, what they called raving? She shrank within herself; her heart failed her; a sickness which took the light from her eyes, made her limbs tremble and her head swim. Oh, what sport had he been to the two--the two who were nearest to her in the world! What had they done with him, Mrs Gaunt’s boy--the youngest, the favourite? There swept through the girl’s mind like a bitter wind a cry against--Fate was it, or Providence? Had they but let alone, had each stayed in her own place, it would have been Frances who should have met, with a fresh heart, the young man’s early fancy. They would have met sincere and faithful, and loved each other, and all would have been well. But there was no Frances; there was only Constance, to throw his heart away. She seemed to see it all as in a picture--Constance with the red ribbons on her grey dress, with the smile that said it was only amusement; with the little hand, the little white hand, that gave the blow. And then all play, all play, red or black, what did it matter? and the bullet; and the mother in mourning, and Markham. Constance and Markham! murderers. This was the cry that came from the bottom of the girl’s heart. Murderers!--of two; of him and of herself; of the happiness that was justly hers, which at this moment she claimed, and wildly asserted her right to have, in the clamour of her angry heart. She seemed to see it all in a moment: how he was hers; how she had given her heart to him before she ever saw him; how she could have made him happy. She would not have shrunk from India or anywhere. She would have made him happy. And Constance, for a jest, had come between; for amusement, had broken his heart. And Markham, for amusement--for amusement!--had destroyed his life; and hers as well. There are moments when the gentle and simple mind becomes more terrible than any fury.