She stood, the strain relaxed, mute and drooping by the little table. Once and once only had she glanced up at his face; and it had thrilled her with pride to see how the manliness, the nobility in it had suffered no disillusionment to affect them. If sorrow had entered there, will had not surrendered.
“I don’t know,” she whispered scarce audibly. “We had not—I think—got as far as considering that.”
He gave a little odd laugh.
“Typical romancers,” he said—“to end with the wedding bells!”
She put her hand upon the table for support. There a little sharp crack, and an involuntary cry from her lips. He hurried to her. The glass of a miniature on which her hand had rested had broken and scratched the ball of her thumb.
“Blood!” he said—“I must staunch it—” and he lifted the limb, though she strove to resist, and put the soft pink palm to his lips.
She gave a miserable cry—and on the instant he had his arms about her.
“Atonement!” he said hoarsely—“you speak of atonement? It must be in giving yourself to the man you have so shamefully deceived. Nothing short of your devoting your life to him can atone.”
“No, no,” she whispered; and for the first time the tears came thick to her eyes—“No—no—no—” she seemed incapable of any but that one heart-rent ejaculation.
He held her prisoner—fiercely, as though he dreaded that she would escape him.