“Why—why—Mr. Benton,” she floundered piteously. “I hadn’t the least idea that you were referring to yourself when you asked for my advice—I thought you were speaking of men in general. You must believe me when I assure you that I never dreamed of such a thing.”
“Am I displeasing to you?” he inquired anxiously.
“No—no—I don’t mean that—only I hadn’t the least suspicion that I meant anything to you.”
“You mean everything to me—I love you, dear—I can’t tell you how deeply.” His arms went out to her to draw her to him, but she turned away, her bare white shoulders quivering.
“You haven’t the right to speak to me of love,” she protested chokingly. “I’m sorry if I have given you the impression that I was the sort of woman you could say such things to——”
“Why, my dear,” stupidly he tried to explain, to protest, as he sought for the hand she withheld. “I have only the most profound respect and admiration for you.”
“You—you have a wife,” she accused. As an actress Geraldine DeLacy would have made a profound success, for her simulation now was perfect. She choked back her sobs. “And yet you speak to me of love. What am I to think?”
“When I came into this room to-night, I hadn’t the slightest intention of revealing my sentiments toward you. It was you yourself, with your logical reasoning, who gave me the courage to speak. If I were free, do you think—oh my dear, answer me truthfully—do you think you could learn to care for me?” He pleaded wistfully.
“Just what do you mean?” she breathed.
“If I can persuade Marjorie to divorce me—have I a chance to win your love?”