"If you think that the world has spoiled her, that she will be different from what she was in her home among your mountains, let me reassure you.
In her you will find the miracle of a woman whom no flattery can turn the head. I have watched her in your interest; I have tested her. She is what you saw her last."
"Surely," asked Gregory, in an anguish for what he now dreaded, "you haven't spoken to her of me?"
"Not by name, no. I could not have that indiscretion"--"The name is nothing. Have you said that you knew me-- Of course not!
But have you hinted at any knowledge-- Because"--"You will hear!" said Belsky; and he poured out upon Gregory the story of what he had done. "She did not deny anything. She was greatly moved, but she did not refuse to let me bid you hope"--"Oh!" Gregory took his head between his hands. "You have spoiled my life!"
"Spoiled" Belsky stopped aghast.
"I told you my story in a moment of despicable weakness--of impulsive folly. But how could I dream that you would ever meet her? How could I imagine that you would speak to her as you have done?" He groaned, and began to creep giddily about the room in his misery. "Oh, oh, oh!
What shall I do?"
"But I do not understand!" Belsky began. "If I have committed an error"--"Oh, an error that never could be put right in all eternity!"
"Then let me go to her--let me tell her"--"Keep away from her!" shouted Gregory. "Do you hear? Never go near her again!"