“No, no, you shall not say that!” said Ezra in agony. “I cannot bear it. She had no such thought. She was as innocent as the flowers, as she looked at me with her sweet eyes. She had no such thought, I know.” “It is ever thus,” said Madame, coming closer to him and speaking with an unwonted tremor in her voice. “Love seems always at cross purposes. You give all your love to Olive, who gives all hers to Cotterell. Another gives all her love to you. We are equally unhappy.” Ezra gazed at her in silent amazement as if he were doubting that he had understood her. “Yes,” she went on more calmly in her deep sweet voice. “I am more in need of pity than you. Your love has left you, and you grieve, but men will give you sympathy. When I lost my love I had to smile and pretend delight. I had to look on his joy and hers. You are not called upon to congratulate Cotterell on his happiness.” “Great God, is that you, Madame? Or is it that I am going mad, and is this some mocking fiend?” gasped Ezra, starting up. “Not a mocking fiend, Ezra, but I myself who for once in this world am enjoying the rare privilege of telling the truth. Ezra Weston, you are not the most unhappy person in Perfection City. I have long enjoyed that melancholy pre-eminence. Now in a common misfortune let us comfort one another.” Ezra sat down again and dropped his head in his hands. Occasionally he looked at her as she moved about the room putting everything in order. It almost seemed as if he was trying to understand who she was and that he could hardly do so, his mind was in such a turmoil of grief and misery. She laid out two more candles beside those already alight in the candle-sticks. “You will sit up all night,” she said at last. “These candles will last half the time, then light the other two. It is hard sitting in the dark alone with one’s breaking thoughts. Light the candles and keep them burning. That is what I did on the night you left to go to Smyrna to be married, and on the night when you brought her home here to Perfection City.”