"I am sorry," he said. "I am ashamed. Forgive me. I couldn't help it. No one could. Good-bye. Try to forgive me—"
He turned to go, but she caught him by the arms. He had been almost sure she would.
"You mustn't go," she said. "Oh—I am sorry for Tom—but it's not the same for him. There are lots of people he'd like just as well—but you—"
"Hush!" he said gently, "don't think of me. I shall be all right. I shall get over it."
His sad, set smile assured her that he never would—never, in this world or the next.
Her eyes were shining with the stress of the scene: his with the charm of it.
"You are so strong, so brave, so good," she made herself say. "I can't let you go. Oh—don't you see—I can't let you suffer. You've suffered so much already—you've been so noble. Oh—it's better to know now. If I'd found out later—"
She hung her head and waited.
But he would not spare her. Since he had sold his soul he would have the price: the full price, to the last blush, the last tear, the last tremble in the pretty voice.
"Let me go," he said, and his voice shook with real passion, "let me go—I can't bear it." He took her hands gently from his arms and held them lightly.