Then the fear in his heart became a live thing. He was dumb. He could not have spoken had he tried.
"It was your coldness all these years," she murmured. "You were different once. You know that. At first, when the horror of what happened was young, I thought I understood. I thought, as it wore off, that you would be different. The horror has gone now, Lawrence. We know that it was an accident, it might as well have been another as you. But you have not changed. I have given up hoping. I have tried everything else, and I am a very miserable woman. Now I am going to pray to you, Lawrence. You do not care for me more. Pretend that you do! You cannot give me your love. Give me the best you can. Don't despise me too utterly, Lawrence! Pity me, if you will. Heaven knows I need it. And—you will be a little kind!"
Her hands were clasped about his neck. He disengaged himself gently.
"Blanche!" he cried, hoarsely, "I love another woman!"
"Are you engaged to her?"
"No! Not now!"
"Then what does it matter? What does it matter, anyhow? It is not the real thing I am asking you for, Lawrence—only the make-belief! Keep the rest for her, if you must, but give me lies, false looks, hollow caresses, anything! You see what depths I have fallen to."
He held her hands tightly. A great pity for her filled his heart—pity for her, and for himself.
"Blanche," he said, "there is one way only. It is for you to decide. Will you marry me? I will do my best to make you a good husband!"
"Marry you?" she gasped. "Lawrence, I dare not!"