She spoke less to him than to her own dazed and miserable consciousness, which moment by moment saw new matter for humiliation in the deception of which she had been the victim. But Gault, with the guilt of his own hateful suspicions weighing upon him, feared that she had realized his previous state of mistrust, and said fervently: "If I did believe what was a wrong to you, forgive me, Viola. I was a blind fool." She raised her head like a stag and transfixed him with a sudden glance. Unprepared for the innocence of her point of view, he met the look shamefacedly, and in an instant she guessed what he had suspected. In one terrible moment, illuminated with a blasting flash of memory, she understood his attitude in the past, and heard again the words that had puzzled and surprised her. Horror and despair seemed to choke her. She drew away from him, her eyes full of tragic accusation, murmuring almost under her breath: "You--that I believed in, and trusted, and loved!" "I was a fool--a brute! I know it. All I can say is to ask you to forgive me." "I can't forgive--or forget. Never--never!" He tried again to take her hands, but she drew back from him with what seemed a fierce repugnance, and cried wildly: "Go--you and my father, what have you done to me? I can't forgive him, either! How can I? You've dragged me down, between you. You've destroyed me and broken my heart." "Viola," he cried desperately, "listen to me. You don't know my side. Listen to me while I tell you." "There's nothing to say. I don't want to hear. I know enough. Go--go away from me! Oh, my father! My poor father! How could you! How could you!" She burst into tears--the most terrible tears that he had ever seen. Throwing herself into the colonel's chair, she lay huddled there, her face pressed into the arm, her slender figure shaken by the explosive force of her grief. To his broken words and appeals she made no answer. He doubted whether she heard him. The storm of feeling, stronger than he had ever supposed her capable of, swayed her as a blast sways a sapling. Finally he bent over her and rested his cheek on her hair, whispering: "I want to do everything you ask me. But before I go, say you forgive me." She raised herself and pushed him away. Her face was almost unrecognizable, blurred and swollen with tears. "Go--go!" she cried. "That is all I want of you. You've done enough harm to me. Do what I ask now." He attempted to bend over her and say some last words of farewell, but she turned her face away from him and pressed it into the upholstered arm of the chair. He kissed her hair, and stood for a moment looking at her, then turned and crossed the room. At the door he stopped and looked back. "Good-by," he said hesitatingly. A smothered good-by came from her. He waited, hoping for some word of forgiveness or recall. Instead, she said once more, this time pleadingly: "Oh, go! please go--I want to be alone."