“And will—always?”
“Always.”
“No matter what I did—or have done?”
“No matter,” she said; “you are—you. You are—mine.”
“Are you sure,” he persisted, somehow growing fierce, “sure—do you know what you are saying? No matter what I did, how unworthy I became, to what depths I sank”—even in that instant he was conscious of a dramatic quality in the situation, conscious of the eloquence, as it seemed to him, of his words—“to what depths of shame, of dishonor?”
“Why—Jerome!” the girl raised her face, half frightened, “what do you——”
“Tell me,” he demanded, and he fairly shook her, “how do you know?”
She raised her face, and he saw that it was moistened with tears. She withdrew from his embrace, and sat erect. He let his arms fall to his side. Then she took his face in her two hands, she looked into his eyes, and she gave a scornful little laugh.
“How do I know?” she said. “Ah, Jerome, because I know you; because I know that you could do nothing dishonorable!”
He hung his head, helpless, and the impulse to tell her passed with the moment that made it impossible.