For, after all,
what had they truly in common, he and she, but a periodical transient
excitation?
When next he looked at her, her eyes were wide open and a flush was
coming, as imperceptibly as the dawn, into her cheeks. He took her
hands again and rubbed them. Marthe returned, and Christine drank. She
gazed, in weak silence, first at Marthe and then at G.J. After a few
moments no one spoke. Marthe took off Christine's boots, and rubbed
her stockinged feet, and then kissed them violently.
"Madame should go to bed."
"I am better."
Marthe left the room, seeming resentful.
"What has passed?" Christine murmured, without smiling.
"A faint in the taxi, my poor child. That was all," said G.J. calmly.
"But how is it that I find myself here?"
"I carried thee upstairs in my arms."
"Thou?"
"Why not?" He spoke lightly, with careful negligence. "It appears that
thou wast in the Strand."
"Was I? I lost thee. Something tore thee from me. I ran. I ran till I
could not run. I was sure that never more should I see thee alive. Oh!
My Gilbert, what terrible moments! What a catastrophe! Never shall I
forget those moments!"
G.J. said, with bland supremacy:
"But it is necessary that thou shouldst forget them.
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