"I am a villian, Cynthia—a mean miserable cur! Can't you accept that fact, and leave me without asking why?"
"No, I cannot, Hubert; I don't believe it."
"It is no good telling me that—I know myself too well. Believe all that I say, Cynthia, and give me up. Don't make me tell you why."
"I shall always love you," she whispered, "whether you are bad or good."
"Suppose that I had injured any one that was very dear to you—saved myself from punishment at his expense? I daren't go any farther. Is there nothing that you can suppose that I have done—the very hardest thing in the whole world for you to forgive? You can't forgive it, I know; to tell you means to cut myself off from you for the rest of my life; and yet I cannot make up my mind to take advantage of your ignorance. I have resolved, Cynthia, that I will not say another word of—of love to you—until you know the truth."
She gazed at him, her lips growing white, her eyes dilating with sudden terror.
"There is only one thing," she said at length, "that I—that I——"
"That you could not forgive. I am answered, Cynthia; it is that one thing that I have done."
He spoke very calmly, but his face was white with a pallor like that of death. She remained motionless; it seemed as if she could scarcely dare to breathe, and her face was as pale as his own.
"Hubert," she said presently, only just above her breath, "you must be saying what you do not mean!"