"Against ourselves," he responded quickly. "I should, for instance, have told you that I was so much in love with one woman, that to me all others must remain—just others. Now you have done me the honor to say you love me."
"Please, Stuart!" Marian's face was momentarily drawn in a paroxysm of pain. "Please don't make me pretty speeches. It isn't necessary—and it doesn't help."
"I'm not making pretty speeches," he declared. "My love is a hopeless one, but I can't deny its force without lying. I've helped you spoil your life and if I can help you mend it—" He broke off there and then abruptly he said: "Marian, will you marry me?"
She carried her hands to her face and covered her eyes. For a moment she sat in a stunned attitude and her words came faintly:
"I understand your motive, dear. It's gallant—but it wouldn't do."
"Why?" he demanded and again her head came up with the bearing of pride.
"I've already told you that it's not rehabilitation in the eyes of the world I seek. For you it would be sacrifice—and for me a failure. If you asked me because you loved me, and I believed I could make you happy I think you know what my answer would be. But to marry you without your loving me—well, that would be—" She paused and then finished: "It would be sheer Hell."
Stuart leaned over and picked up the pipe. His face was rigid and self-accusing, and the woman laid her hand on his arm.
"You have ridden with me in the hunting field, Stuart," she irrelevantly reminded him. "I hope you'll testify that I can take my croppers when they come. Please don't think I'm whimpering."
"One could hardly think that," he declared.