"Can't—do—what?" she asked.
"Can't give in to Atwater." Rapidly he gave her an outline of the situation. Partly because he abhorred cant, partly because he was determined not to say anything sounding like an appeal for her admiration and sympathy, he carefully concealed the real reasons of pride and self-respect that forbade him to make terms with Atwater. "I won't bend to any man," he ended. "I may be, shall be, struck down. But I'll never kneel down!"
She seemed bewildered by the marshy maze of trickery through which his explanation had been taking her. "It seems to me," she urged, "that if you don't make terms with Mr. Atwater, don't return to what you originally agreed to do, it'll mean disgrace you don't deserve, and injury to the men who have stood by you."
"So it will," was his answer in a monotonous, exasperating way. "Nevertheless—" He shrugged his shoulders—"I can't do it. I've always been that way. I don't know, myself, till the test comes, what I may do and what I may not do."
Her eyes lowered, but he thought he could see and feel her contempt. She left the door, seated herself, resting her head on her arms. He shifted awkwardly from one leg to the other. He felt he had accomplished his purpose, had done what was the only decent thing in the circumstances—had disgusted her. It was time to go. But he lingered.
She startled him by suddenly straightening herself and saying, or rather beginning, "If you really loved me——"
He, stung with furious anger, made a scornful gesture. "Delilah!" he cried. "It's always the same story. Love robs a man of his strength. You would use love to tempt me to be a traitor to myself. Yes, a traitor. I haven't much morality, or that sort of thing. But I've got a standard, and to it I must hold. If I yielded to Atwater, I should go straight to hell."
"Ah," she exclaimed, as if the clouds had suddenly opened, "then you are right, Horace. You must not yield! Why did you frighten me? Why didn't you say that before? Why did you pretend it was mere stubbornness?"
"Because that's what it is—mere stubbornness. Stubbornness—that's my manhood—all the manhood I've got. I grant terms—I do not accept them."
His manner chilled, where his words would have had small effect. And it conveyed no impression of being an assumed manner; on the contrary, the cold, immovable man before her seemed more like the Armstrong she had known than the man of tenderness and passion. Her words were braver than her manner, and more hopeful, as she said, "You can't deceive me, Horace. It must be that it is impossible to make honorable terms with Atwater."