“I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” said she, in a voice low and collected.
“Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. “Is it not plain to you that you are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?”
“But I am crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, tremulously.
“Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!”
“I cannot—I cannot!” burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot!”
“If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the snare that was laid for me!”
A scornful toss of her head was all her answer.
“It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this reparation, Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When I speak otherwise, it is my passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to you.”
“Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I am not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here.”
“Let me confess it, Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, “these letters are the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep them,—so help me Heaven, the hour of your shame would be that of my death,—but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours. I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am nothing to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone attaches me to existence.”