I was not long in going. I darted down the stairs. I suppose a man tricks his conscience and will find excuses for himself where others can find only matter for laughter, but I remember congratulating myself on not having spoken the decisive words to Phroso before Denny interrupted us. Well, I would speak them now. I was free to speak them now. Suddenly, in this thought, the vexation at being jilted vanished.
‘It amounts,’ said I to myself, as I reached the hall, ‘to no more than a fortunate coincidence of opinion.’ And I passed through the door and turned sharp round to the left.
She was there waiting for me, and waiting eagerly, it seemed, for, before I could speak, she ran to me, holding out her hands, and she cried in a low urgent whisper, full of entreaty:
‘My lord, I have thought. I have thought while you were in the house. You must not do this, my lord. Yes, I know—now I know—that you love me, but you mustn’t do this. My lord’s honour shan’t be stained for my sake.’
I could not resist it, and I cannot justify it. I assumed a terribly sad expression.
‘You’ve really come to that conclusion, Phroso?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Ah, how difficult it is! But my lord’s honour—ah, don’t tempt me! You will take me to Athens, won’t you? And then—’
‘And then,’ said I, ‘you’ll leave me?’
‘Yes,’ said Phroso, with a little catch in her voice.
‘And what shall I do, left alone?’