“Forgive me,” she said. “I like to see the _grand seigneur_ in you now and then. It puts me in mind of happier days. But about Pasquale--the only thing he tells me is that he is not able to execute a commission for me. He told me on the night he drove me home that he was going to Paris, and I asked him to get me some cosmetic. Carmine Badouin, if you want to know. I have got to rouge now before I am fit to be seen in the street. I am quite frank about it.” “Then you know nothing of Carlotta?” I cried. “Carlotta?” “She eloped with that double-dyed, damned, infernal villain, the day after I saw you.” Judith looked at me for a moment, then closed her eyes and turned her head away, resting her hand on the table. My indignation waxed hot against the scoundrel. How dare he write casual letters to Judith about Carmine Badouin with his treachery on his conscience? I know the terms of flippant grace in which the knave couched this precious epistle. And I could see Carlotta reading over his shoulder and clapping her hands and cooing: “Oh, that is so funny!” When I had told Judith the outlines of the story, pacing up and down the little room while she remained motionless by the table, she put out her hand to me, and in a low voice, and with still averted eyes said that she was sorry, deeply sorry. Her tone rang so true and loyal that my heart throbbed with quick appreciation of her high nature, and I wrung her outstretched hand. “God bless you, Judith,” I cried, fervently. “Bless you for your sweet sympathy. Be sorry for me only as for a man who has passed through the horrors of delirium. But for me as I stand before you now, I ask you not to be sorry. I have come to bring you, if I can, dear Judith, a measure of gladness, perhaps of happiness.” She wrenched herself free from me, and a terrified cry of “Marcus!” checked my dithyrambic appeal. She shrank away so that a great corner of the dining-table separated us, and she stared at me as though my words hats been the affrighting utterance of a madman. “Marcus! What do you mean?” she cried, with an unnatural shrillness in her voice. “I mean,” said I, “I mean--I mean that ‘crushed by three days’ pressure, my three days’ love lies slain.’ Time has withered him at the root. I have buried him deep in unconsecrated ground, like a vampire, with a stake through his heart. And I have come back to you, Judith, humbly to crave your forgiveness and your love--to tell you I have changed, dear--to offer you all I have in the world if you will but take it--to give you my life, my daily, hourly devotion. My God!” I cried, “don’t you believe me?” She still stared at me in a frightened way, leaning heavier on the table. Her lips twitched before they could frame the words, “Yes, I believe you. You have never lied to me.” “Then in the name of love and heaven,” I cried, “why do you look at me like that?”