es had encountered Don Luis's
eyes; and she received a deep impression that he was not listening to
what she said. He was looking at her; and that was all. The words she
uttered passed unheard.

To Don Luis any explanation concerning the tragedy itself mattered
nothing, so long as he was not enlightened on the one point that
interested him, on Florence's private thoughts about himself, thoughts of
aversion, of contempt. Outside that, anything that she could say was vain
and tedious.

He went up to her and, in a low voice, said:

"Florence, you know what I feel for you, do you not?"

She blushed, taken aback, as though the question was the very last that
she expected to hear. Nevertheless, she did not lower her eyes, and she
answered frankly:

"Yes, I know."

"But, perhaps," he continued, more eagerly, "you do not know how deeply I
feel it? Perhaps you do not know that my life has no other aim but you?"

"I know that also," she said.

"Then, if you know it," he said, "I must conclude that it was just that
which caused your hostility to me. From the beginning I tried to be your
friend and I tried only to defend you. And yet from the beginning I felt
that for you I was the object of an aversion that was both instinctive
and deliberate. Never did I see in your eyes anything but coldness,
dislike, contempt, and even repulsion.

"At moments of danger, when your life or your liberty was at stake, you
risked committing any imprudence rather than accept my assistance. I was
the enemy, the man to be distrusted, the man capable of every infamy, the
man to be avoided, and to be thought of only with a sort of dread. Isn't
that hatred? Is there anything but hatred to explain such an attitude?"

Florence did not answer at once. She seemed to be putting off the moment
at which to speak the words that rose to her lips. Her face, thin and
drawn with weariness and pain, was gentler than usual.

"Yes," she said, "there are other things than hatred to explain that
attitude."

Don Luis was dumfounded. He did not quite understand the meaning of the
reply; but Florence's tone of voice disconcerted him beyond measure, and
he also saw that Florence's eyes no longer wore their usual scornful
expression and that they were filled with smiling charm. And it was the
first time that Florence had smiled in his presence.

"Speak, speak, I entreat you!" he stammered.

"I mean to say that there is another feeling which explains coldness,