"Chide me, scorn me, hate me if you will.

Valerie, I love you." Valerie drew away her hand, and still remained silent.
"Speak to me," said Ernest, leaning forward; "one word, I implore you--speak to me!" He paused,--still no reply; he listened breathlessly--he heard her sob.

Yes; that proud, that wise, that lofty woman of the world, in that moment, was as weak as the simplest girl that ever listened to a lover.
But how different the feelings that made her weak!--what soft and what stern emotions were blent together! "Mr.Maltravers," she said, recovering her voice, though it sounded hollow, yet almost unnaturally firm and clear"-- the die is cast, and I have lost for ever the friend for whose happiness I cannot live, but for whose welfare I would have died; I should have foreseen this, but I was blind.

No more--no more; see me to-morrow, and leave me now!" "But, Valerie--" "Ernest Maltravers," said she, laying her hand lightly on his own; "_there is no anguish, like an error of which we feel ashamed_!" Before he could reply to this citation from his own aphorism, Valerie had glided away; and was already seated at the card-table, by the side of the Italian princess.
Maltravers also joined the group.

He fixed his eyes on Madame de Ventadour, but her face was calm--not a trace of emotion was discernible.