"Unlawfully—you make me rage! Lanse is the unlawful one."
"That doesn't excuse me."
"Don't put the word excuse anywhere near yourself when you are talking of Lanse; I won't bear it. And nothing is wrong that we cannot possibly help, Margaret; any one would tell you that. If it is something beyond our wills, we are powerless."
"Against my love for you I may be powerless—I am. But not against the indulgence of it."
"You are too strong," he began, "I couldn't pretend—" then he saw how she was trembling.
From head to foot a quiver had seized her, the lovely shoulders, the long lithe length of limb which gave her the step he had always admired so much, the little hands, though she had folded them closely as if endeavoring to stop it, even the lips with their sweet curves—the tremor had taken them all from her control; she stood there helpless before him.
"I can't reason, Margaret, and I won't; in this case reason's wrong, and you're wrong. You love me—that I know. And the power for good of such a love as yours—you magnificent woman, not afraid to tell it—that power shall not be wasted and lost. Have you I will!" It was more than a touch now; he held her white wrists with a grasp like iron, and drew her towards him. "I hold you so, but it won't be for long. In reality I am at your feet," he said.
She had not struggled, she made no effort to free herself. But her eyes met his, full of an indomitable refusal. "I shall never yield," she murmured.
Thus they stood for a moment, the two wills grappled in a mute contest.
Then he let her hands drop.