She knew that for himself he had ever held life cheap, that he could have seen Tignonville suffer without a qualm.

And the thoughtfulness for her, the value he placed on a thing--even on a rival's life--because its was dear to her, touched her home, moved her as few things could have moved her at that moment.

She saw it of a piece with all that had gone before, with all that had passed between them, since that fatal Sunday in Paris.

But she made no sign.

More than she had said she would not say; words of love, even of reconciliation, had no place on her lips while he whom she had sacrificed awaited his burial.
And meantime the man beside her lay and found it incredible.