love on her face, the hope with which she hung upon my reply, as
though it would decide everything between us. I did not hesitate;
my hands dropped to my side, the warmth died out of my heart as
out of spent ashes, and I answered her, with cold reproach,

"I--will--not!"

The color died out of her face also. Her eyes still rested on
mine, but now with pitying sadness.

"I feared it," she murmured, audibly, but to herself, and the
curtains fell together.


Four days have passed. Georgiana has cast me off. Her curtains
are closed except when she is not there. I have tried to see her;
she excuses herself. I have written; my letters come back unread.
I have lain in wait for her on the streets; she will not talk with
me. The tie between us has been severed. With her it could never
have been affection.

And for what? I ask myself over and over and over--for what? Was
she jealous of the bird, and did she require that I should put it
out of the way? Sometimes women do that. Did she take that means
of forcing me to a test? Women do that. Did she wish to show
her power over me, demanding the one thing she knew would be the
hardest for me to grant? Women do that. Did she crave the pleasure
of seeing me do wrong to humor her caprice? Women do that. But
not one these things can I even associate with the thought of
Georgiana. I have in every way to have her explain, to explain