To ignore him was impossible; to betray, by
the slightest sign, the quiver of fear, of indignation, which ran through
all her frame, that, too, was equally impossible. One thing only
presented itself to her as to be done. She lifted up her cold, clear eyes,
fixed them on him, and equally cold and clear her few commonplace
words fell:
"No, I thank you; I prefer not to sing any more to-night." What answer
was made, or how, still touching Sir Edwin's arm, she was piloted back
through the crowd to Miss Gascoigne's side, Christian had not the
slightest recollection either then afterward; she only knew that she did
it, and he did it, and that he then bowed politely and left her.
So it was all over. They had met, she and her sometime lover, her
_preux chevalier_ of a month--met, and she did not love him any more.
Not an atom! All such feelings had been swept away, crushed out of
existence by the total crushing of that respect and esteem without which
no good woman can go on loving. At least no woman like Christian
could.
Call her not fickle, nor deem it unnatural for love so to perish. After
learning what she had learned from absolute incontrovertible evidence
(it is useless to enter into the circumstances, for no one is benefited by
wallowing in unnecessary mire), that she, or any virtuous maiden,
should continue to love this man, would have been a thing still more
unnatural--nay, wicked.
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