She realised with terrible vividness the extent of her own passion and the appalling indifference of its objet.

A wave of despair rose and swept over her heart.

Her sight grew dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain.
She did not even attempt to speak, for she had no thoughts which could take the shape of words.

She leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw her breath, closing her eyes, and wishing she were alone.
"What is the matter ?" asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise.
She did not answer.

He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched her hand.
"Are you ill ?" he asked again.
She pushed him away, almost roughly.
"No," she answered shortly.
Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought his again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall.
"It is nothing," she said.