‘No, no,’ she whispered; ‘you must not ask me that I am not afraid of the world, but I am afraid of my own conscience.’
‘Do you think,’ he asked passionately, ‘that love could not sanctify a union such as ours? Be my Georges Sand, and I will be your De Musset; be my Stella, and I will be your Swift.’
‘You choose your instances unfortunately, Mr. Armstrong,’ Gertrude answered. ‘Georges and Alfred lived to write vile and bitter books about each other, and Stella broke her heart under the despotism of a brute. I do not care for such a prospect.’
The ‘Mr. Armstrong ‘lashed him like an actual whip, and under the sting of it he barely followed the meaning of what came after. He was so staggered that he could only repeat the words:
‘Mr. Armstrong.’
‘You force me to my defence,’ she answered gently. ‘I am a woman, Paul; but I have my code of honour.’
‘Im Gott’s und Teufel’s namen,’ he groaned, ‘what is it? You give me lips and arms; you have sworn you love me. What is loyalty?’
She drew herself to her full height:
‘I do not pretend to define loyalty,’ she said; ‘but I know it when I see it. It may be less definite than insult; but the last, at least, is clearly outlined. I have been mistaken, and I will correct my error now. Good-bye, Mr. Armstrong.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Paul.