Rylton is thinking, too, of last night, and that terrible interview with Marian. A feeling of hatred towards her grows within him. She had played with him—killed all that was best in him, and then flung him aside. She had let him go for the moment—only to return and spoil whatever good the world had left him. Her face rises before him pleading, seductive; and here is the other face—angry, scornful. Oh, dear little angry face! How fair, how pure, and how beloved!
"I tell you," says he, breaking out vehemently, "that all that is at an end—if I ever loved her." He forgets everything now, and, catching her hands, holds them tightly in his own. "Give me another trial," entreats he.
"No, no!" She speaks as if choking, but for all that she draws her hands out of his. "It would be madness. You would tire. We should tire of each other in a week—where there is no love. No, no!"
"You refuse, then?"
"I refuse!"
"Tita——"
She turns upon him passionately.
"I won't listen. It is useless. You"—a sob breaks from her—"why don't you go!" she cries a little wildly.
"This is not good-bye," says he desperately. "You will let me come again? Margaret, I know, receives on Sundays. Say I may come then."
"Yes."