“Do you forgive MacNutt?”
“No, I do not! I can’t, for your sake. But I would rather lie and scheme and plot myself than see you do it. A woman is different—I don’t know how or why it is, but in some way she has a fiercer furnace of sacrifice. If her wickedness is for another, her very love burns away all the dross of deceit and selfishness!”
“I hate to hear you talk that way, when you know you’re good and true as gold, through and through. And I want you to be my wife, Frank, no matter what it costs or what it means.”
“But will you make this promise?”
“It’s—it’s too hard on you! Think of the grind and the monotony and the skimping! And besides, supposing you saw a chance to get the upper hand of MacNutt in some way, would you fold your hands and sigh meekly and let it slip past?”
“I can’t promise that I would! But it’s you I’m afraid of, and that I’m trying to guard and protect and save from yourself!”
She caught up his free hand and held it closely in her own.
“Listen,” he broke in irrelevantly, “there’s a hurdy-gurdy somewhere down in the street! Hear it?”
The curtains swayed in the breeze; the street sounds crept to them, muffled and far away.
“Can’t you promise?” she pleaded.