Things could not go on
indefinitely as they had been going. What was to be the end of it all?
Eventually she would fall in love, and a woman was no more use to the
Cause once that happened. No vows would be strong enough to keep her
from a man's arms once she cared. She would not love lightly or
easily, and where would she find love, here in Barcelona?
Half unconsciously, he found himself comparing Arithelli with the woman
who had betrayed him. Emile never lied, even to himself, and he knew
now that Marie Roumanoff had almost become a shadow.
A plaything she had been, a child, a doll, a being made for caresses
and admiration. To a woman of her type camaraderie would have been
impossible. He had not wanted it, and it had not been in her nature to
give it.
A man, who had been sitting opposite, got up, gesticulated, put on his
hat at a reckless angle, and, with a noisy farewell to his companions,
swaggered out.
In the mirror that faced him Emile saw the quick furtive glance
bestowed upon him, though he sat apparently unconscious of it.
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