Both were hearing the mad flapping of that frightened bird in the copse round the summerhouse. She shivered; he moved uneasily. "Even if she knew," he objected, "she may be dead or in the stupor of death before he gets to her."
"Then he'll hear nothing, and there's no reason why you shouldn't go. I'll say you got a telegram from your mother——"
"If he comes merely suspecting and uneasy, and I'm gone——"
"Still he'd not be sure," she interrupted. "And if he were, he'd not have the sight of you to inflame him." She rose. "There's no time to waste."
He settled himself. "I shall not go. We face him together."
The clock on the chimney-piece struck. She gave a cry, rushed to him. "Basil—my love!" she implored. "If you love me, go—go!"
He pressed his hands to her cheeks tenderly, smiled at her with the gentle tolerance of superior male for female. "I understand, dear. This is like you. But my honor will not let me go."
She released his hand, stood gazing at him. In the beginning she had urged only because she had wished to save him. But she had been convinced by her own arguments; and it amazed her that he was refusing to see what was so clear. "You—will—not—go?" she said.
"No, Courtney. I cannot."
She brushed the strays of hair from her brow. She laughed scornfully, with a contemptuous shrug. "Whether you two men kill each other or are only wounded, still Winchie and I will be disgraced. You may be only wounded—may get over it in a week or so—or you two may only have a vulgar fight—with the servants looking on. In any case I am done for."