"Do you offer it to me as Linda's husband?" she demanded.
It was a crisis for which Draconmeyer was scarcely prepared. He was driven out of his pusillanimous compromise. She was pressing him hard for the truth. Again the fear of losing her altogether terrified him.
"If I have other feelings of which I have not spoken," he said quietly, "have I not kept them to myself? Do I obtrude them upon you even now? I am content to wait."
"To wait for what?" she insisted.
All that had been in his mind seemed suddenly miraged before him—the removal of Hunterleys, his own wife's failing health. The way had seemed so clear only a little time ago, and now the clouds were back again.
"Until you appreciate the fact," he told her, "that you have no more sincere friend, that there is no one who values your happiness more than I do."
"Supposing I take this money from you," she asked, after a moment's pause. "Are there any conditions?"
"None whatever," he answered.
She turned away with a little sigh. The tragedy which a few minutes ago she had seen looming up, eluded her. She had courted a dénouement in vain. He was too clever.
"You are very generous," she said. "We will speak of this to-morrow. I called you in because I could not bear the uncertainty of it all. Please go now."