He drew his chair nearer and bent forward. He was by no means so sure of himself as he had been a moment before. It was wonderful—those tones in Nina's voice. They swayed his feelings against his better impulses. Her voice had always been her most effective weapon. Even her beauty was secondary to it.
He was conscious that his heart was pounding. It seemed to rise up chokingly with every bound. And so he stammered:
"You—you mean—you—would reconsider?"
"Ah!" she murmured. "I don't know what I mean. Only—"
"Yes, yes," he hurried her. "Only—only—"
She turned her head aside and covered her face with the hand that had checked his arraignment.
"I am so wretched!" It was little more than a whisper.
"No, no," he pleaded. "Nina, I beg of you."
His emotion swept him away, overriding all law, vaulting honor, trampling scruples. The possibility of possession revived, and the pathetic figure of Darling was forgotten.
He reached out for her, clasped her in his long, hungry arms; and, yielding, she let him draw her close to him, her head nestling against his shoulder.