“I have nothing more to say,” responded Madame Koller, rising too, and drawing her cloak around her. “I did not expect more from you than conventional tolerance. Had you a heart you would have felt for me--for him--for yourself. Can you conceive of anything more noble, or more piteous than two women, one of whom must make a great sacrifice for the man they both love--come, you need not deny it, or lose your temper--because I see you have a temper.” Olivia’s air and manner did certainly indicate dangerous possibilities. “I repeat, of two women as we are, the one makes the sacrifice--the other feels it to the quick. You talk though like a boarding-school miss. You might have got all the phrases you have used out of a book of deportment.” “I am as sincere as you are, Madame Koller,” answered Olivia, in a voice of restrained anger. “I cannot help it that I am more reserved. I could no more say what you have said--” here a deep flush came into Olivia’s face--“than I could commit murder.” Madame Koller stood up, and as she did so, she sighed deeply. Olivia, for the first time, felt sorry for her. “Women who love are foolish, desperate, suicidal--anything. I do not think that you could ever love.” “Do you think that? I _know_ better. I could love--but not like--not like--” “Not like me?” “Yes, since you have said it. Something--something--would hold me back from what you speak of so openly.” “I always said you were as nearly without feeling as the rest of the people here. Elizabeth Pembroke is the only woman I know of, among all of us, that ever really loved. But see how curious it was with her. She defied her father’s curses--yet she did not have the nerve to marry the man she truly loved, because he happened to be an officer in the Union army, for fear the Peytons and the Coles, and the Lesters, and the rest of them, would have turned their backs on her at church. Bah!” “I don’t think it was want of nerve on Elizabeth Pembroke’s part,” replied Olivia. “She was not born to be happy.” “Nor was I,” cried Madame Koller, despondently. There was no more said for a minute or two. Then Madame Koller spoke again. “Now you know what I feel. I don’t ask anything for myself--I only wish to show you that you will ruin Pembroke if you marry him.” An angry light came into Olivia’s eyes. She stood up, straight and stern, and absolutely grew taller as she looked fixedly at Madame Koller. “This is intolerable,” she said. “There is nothing--absolutely nothing--between Pembroke and me, and yet I am subjected to this cross-questioning.” “You would complain a great deal more of it if there were anything between you,” answered Madame Koller, not without a glimpse of grotesque humor. “But now you know where I stand--and let me tell you, Olivia Berkeley, Pembroke is not guiltless toward me, however he would pretend it”--and without waiting for the angry reply on Olivia’s lips, she vanished through the open door.