"Pray pardon me." He rose and stepped towards her. "Will you allow me to see you home?"
"Don't touch me!"
There seemed an absolute fire burning in her eyes, so intense was her scorn. She could not have shrunk from him, or found him more repellent, had he been a leper. Her eyes seemed to scorch him.
He knew himself to be in the right; knew it perfectly well; beyond the shadow of a doubt. But standing before that searing indignation, it was he who appeared to be in the wrong, even to himself—his inmost self.
Such treatment hurt. Thought of the gross unfairness of it too was positively stinging. He who was suffering—the victim—to be put in the wrong! To be arraigned by the victimiser!
His blood, his forehead, seemed to be burning hot, the while he was conscious of cold shivers running through him. Was this—he despised himself as he questioned—carrying out his intention? Was he plucking up his love by the roots?
It was weakness—he labelled it so—weakness on his part that her words, her presence, had still such power to move him. He would be strong—strong and just. But he realized the hardness of the task he set himself. It was man's work; he would prove himself worthy of it.
She did not deign him another word; the wound to her pride was too severe for that. Her blue eyes blazed, as perhaps only blue eyes can. She would have given worlds for tears to soften their burning heat, but no tears came. Without another glance at him she turned and walked away—assumed an every-day gait; he should not think she was excited.
He did not attempt to stop her. Why should he? It was better so. Better that the sharp severing blow had been struck then than later: clean cuts heal quickest. He would let her get well on her way home before he moved. She must not think he was trying to follow.
Standing on the edge of the wall he looked out to sea. The water wore an appearance of invitation: that dangerous aspect which has proved irresistibly attractive to so many. Right out too, it looked so—so—so away from everything.