"You will do this!" she exclaimed. "You are in earnest? And what are your stipulations? Oh! Remember how little I have left of womanly honor, and ask nothing I cannot grant."
A whiteness had come to her lips at the sudden thought that alarmed her.
"I only ask," I answered, shakingly, "that you carry out the purpose of which you spoke in your last letter; that of going far away from this part of the world—where I shall never set eyes on you again. You are to me like a dream that is past: a beautiful dream I must blot from my brain. Within a week I shall have forgotten the thorns and recall only the perfume of roses. A year later I hope to forget the roses themselves. Marjorie, you are the wife of another man. You are, by your own admission, a woman with whom it would be suicide to link my life. But I love you yet. No, do not start. This is my last word on that subject. After all, you have done something for me. From this day the love of woman will never be esteemed a light thing in my mind. A young roué has had a shock that he will not forget. His idle search for pleasure is ended. I shall be another and a better man—even because I have known you."
"And you will save Jack?" she said, entreatingly.
"I will do all I can—'perjure myself like a gentleman'—if necessary. I think you may be sure of having him set free within a very few days."
"What can I do to thank you?" she asked, the tears streaming again from her eyes.
"Nothing," I said, after a moment of hesitation.
For a second I had thought of asking one pure kiss, on the lips. I knew, before the next second had passed that she would refuse it, though her husband's freedom depended on the issue.
"Nothing," I repeated.
As she rose and held out her hands to me in the attitude of parting, I affected not to see the movement. "Good-by," I said, huskily. "No; say no more. Good-by."