Severne took the line, eyed it, realized it, fell back from the window,
and dropped into his seat. This gave Zoe a consoling sense of power. She
had seen her lover raging and restless, and wanting to jump out, yet now
beheld him literally felled with a word from her hand.
He leaned his head in his hand in a sort of broken-down, collapsed,
dogged way that moved her pity, though hardly her respect.
By-and-by it struck her as a very grave thing that he did not reply by
word, nor even by look. He could decide with a glance, and why did he
hesitate? Was he really balancing her against Mademoiselle Klosking
weighted with a share of his winnings?
This doubt was wormwood to her pride and self-respect; but his crushed
attitude allayed in some degree the mere irritation his doubt caused.
The minutes passed and the miles: still that broken figure sat before
her, with his face hidden by his white hand.
Zoe's courage began to falter. Misgivings seized her. She had made that a
matter of love which, after all, to a man, might be a mere matter of
business. He was poor, too, and she had thrust her jealousy between him
and money. He might have his pride too, and rebel against her affront.
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