“It is for you, Lancelot, to release me,” she declared, “and help me to escape from here; from a situation that will bring disgrace on me—and mine.”
“Do you mean that?” he demanded fiercely, leaving his post, and coming a step nearer.
“Yes, I do,” she assented with a set wooden face,—the face of a woman of double her age. “Lancelot, let me pass. If you stand in my way, and prevent my returning home I—I—swear I will never forgive you.”
“If I had stood in your way four years ago, as I ought to have done—my home would be yours. If I let you pass now, I know, that I shall never set eyes on you again.”
His handsome tanned face had taken a curious clay-coloured shade; little drops of sweat stood on his forehead.
“Think again, for God’s sake!” His voice rose, vibrating with passion. “Have mercy on yourself.”
“Myself! No; I don’t count!”
“Nor I? Letty, has it occurred to you, what an awful fool you have made of me?”
It was true; she had sacrificed him as pitilessly as herself—this only struck her now. For her sake Lancelot had given up his regiment, thrown his prospects to the winds, risked the loss of his friends.
“I know,” she stammered at last, “I have cost you a great deal—far, far, too much. Lancelot, I’m not worth it! I am a miserable, cowardly, half-hearted creature—and now—let me go—oh do—I implore you, let me go!”