Grantley passed his hand across his brow—almost the first movement that he had made. He was about to speak when another short fit of vehemence caught hold of Sibylla.
"Yes," she cried, striking the table with her hand, "and it's better than that life of sham and fraud and failure and heartbreak! Yes, a thousand, thousand times better!"
He let the gust pass by, and then spoke slowly, as though he weighed his words.
"Those are the consequences to you and your—your friend here," he said. "Have you thought of the consequences to me?"
"To you? Am I so necessary?" She laughed bitterly.
"And to the boy?"
"Not so bad as growing up in such a home as ours!" she flashed out fiercely again.
"Oh, that's the way you argued that?" he said with a smile. "I was rather wondering. However there are other consequences still." He came yet a pace nearer to her, so that he was close to the table, and rested one hand on it. "There will be other consequences still," he said. "I don't accept the position you propose for me. I don't accept these consequences which you have been so good as to face and decide upon. I refuse them totally—both for myself and for my son I refuse them utterly. It's fair you should understand that. I refuse them root and branch."
Blake leant forward, ready to spring up. The idea of violence came into his head, the idea that Grantley might be armed. Grantley noticed his movement, and at last addressed a word to him.
"Don't be afraid. I don't mean that," he said with a short laugh.