The doctor said something. But you look all right."
"From there."
The trembling seized her again.
"Well, but--it can't be so bad--"
"It is. Don't move! Fritz--"
"Well?"
"You--do you care for me?"
"Of course I do, old girl. Why, you know--"
Suddenly she turned round, stood up and faced him desperately.
"Do you care for me, Fritz?" she said.
There was a dead silence. It seemed to last for a long while. At length
it was broken by a woman's voice crying:
"Fritz,--Fritz--it isn't my fault! It isn't my fault!"
"Good God!" Lord Holme said slowly.
"It isn't my fault, Fritz! It isn't my fault!"
"Good God! but--the doctor didn't--Oh--wait a minute--"
A door opened and shut. He was gone. Lady Holme fell down on the sofa.
She was alone, but she kept on sobbing:
"It isn't my fault, Fritz! It isn't my fault, Fritz!"
And while she sobbed the words she knew that her life with Fritz Holme
had come to an end. The chapter was closed.
From that day she had only one desire--to hide herself. The season was
over. London was empty. She could travel. She resolved to disappear.
Fritz had stayed on in the house, but she would not see him again, and he
did not press her to. She knew why. He dreaded to look at her. She would
see no one. At first there had been streams of callers, but now almost
everybody had left town. Only Sir Donald came to the door each day and
inquired after her health.
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