Don't torture me then--
you, too! You are good. Be kind to me now. Be my friend, Maurice Guest."
Maurice was vanquished; in a low voice he told her what she wished to
hear. She read the syllables from his lips, repeated the name slowly
after him, then shook her head; she did not know it. Letting his hand
drop, she went back to the sofa.
"Tell me everything you know about her," she said imperiously. "What
is she like?--what is she like? What is the colour of her hair?"
Maurice was a poor hand at description. Questioned thus, he was not
even sure whether to call Ephie pretty or not; he knew that she was
small, and very young, but of her hair he could say little, except
that it was not black.
Louise caught at the detail. "Not black, no, not black!" she cried.
"He had black enough here," and she ran her hands through her own
unruly hair.
There was nothing she did not want to know, did not try to force from
his lips; and a relentless impatience seized her at his powerlessness.
"I must see her for myself," she said at length, when he had stammered
into silence. "You must bring her to me."
"No, that you really can't ask me to do."
She came over to him again, and took his hands. "You will bring her
here to-morrow--to-morrow afternoon. Do you think I shall hurt her? Is
she any better than I am? Oh, don't be afraid! We are not so easily
soiled.
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