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.