"Why you've got rid of her."
"I suppose you are hinting something," she said wearily. "Please don't do it. I cannot—I cannot possibly be polite, if you are not straightforward. And please be quick, because I have a lot to do."
He flushed at this gentle hectoring, but he could not still his curiosity.
"I want to know," he said slowly, "what your little idea is about me—about me—and you. Are you going to try backing out of it, now that you have her safe?"
She had not thought of it; her face showed that, and he did not need the assurance of her quiet words.
"I was afraid," he muttered, half abashed. "I thought you'd take a chance."
"I couldn't take one unless you offered it," she said.
There were thoughts behind his eyes; he seemed to waver, and she steadied her own face for fear of doing the one thing that would not move him. Now she did not pray: she had a dread of asking for herself, lest God, in punishment, should grant the prayer and let worse follow. Escape was only to be made through a door of George's opening, and she knew he would never let her through, but she looked at the clouds and waited for him to speak.
His words were heralded by guttural noises in his throat.
"I want you," he said at last, with the simplicity of a desire for bread. "And there isn't any need to wait. I'm going to town today. I'll see about it. In three weeks—"