He paid no attention to the question, but went on talking.
"With the right kind of woman at one's side what might not a man achieve?" he demanded. "Here are you in London leading the life of thousands of other women, when with me you might have become as famous as the wife of Garibaldi."
"I don't think I should care to be famous, Pierre," she murmured with a shake of the head. "I'd like you to be famous. But I don't want fame."
"No, no, you want love," he cried. "And it is not too late even now."
"Oh yes, it is," she whispered with a sad smile. "Years too late, Pierre. Besides, I'm not the sort of woman who could bear the burden of an illicit love-affair. I should be afraid of it. I did wrong in thrusting myself into your life again. I had no courage then. I have no courage now."
When she spoke thus, he rose from his chair and kneeling beside her drew her lips down to meet his own.
"Are you sure you have no courage?" he asked breathlessly. "Mary, we are still young. We could still be happy together. In my life there has been no other woman but you. Have you loved any one as you loved me, as you still love me at this moment while I hold you closer to my heart than I have ever held you? Come away with me, Mary. Come away with me to-night, now. Leave behind you all this."
While Pierre was talking, Mary felt that she was nothing more than a doll that a child was vainly trying to wake to life.
A child?
"Hush! Did you hear somebody calling?" she asked in sudden apprehension.