"Esther," said he, daring at last to bring out the doubt that assailed him when he mused over her by himself, "just what do you mean by saying you are afraid?"
"You know," said Esther, almost in a whisper. She had herself in hand now.
"Yes. But tell me again. Tell me explicitly."
"I'm afraid," said Esther, "of him."
"Of your husband? If that's it, say it."
"I'm afraid of Jeff. He's been in here. I told you so. He took hold of me. He dragged me by my wrists. Alston, how can you make me tell you!"
The appeal sickened him. He got up and walked away to the mantel where the candles were, and stood there leaning against the shelf. He heard her catch her breath, and knew she was near sobs. He came back to his chair, and his voice had resumed so much of its judicial tone that her breath grew stiller in accord.
"Esther," said he, "you'd better tell me everything."
"I can't," said she, "everything. You are—" the rest came in a startling gush of words—"you are the last man I could tell."
It was a confession, a surrender, and he felt the tremendous weight of it. Was he the last man she could tell? Was she then, poor child, withholding herself from him as he, in decency, was aloof from her? He pulled himself together.