"Stop!" Louise begged.
Graillot resumed his seat. He watched with an almost painful curiosity the changes in Louise's face, which was convulsed by a storm of passionate apprehension. Yet behind it all he could see the truth. There was something softer in her face than he had ever perceived before, a tenderer light than he had ever seen in her eyes. He sighed and looked down at the carpet.
Louise rose presently and walked abruptly to the window. Then she came back and reseated herself by his side.
"You are the one friend I have in life who understands, dear master," she said. "Do I weary you if I speak?"
He looked steadfastly into her eyes. His plain, bearded face was heavy-browed, lined, tired a little with the coming of age.
"Louise," he declared, "it is only because I dare not lift my thoughts and eyes any higher that I count myself the greatest friend you ever could have in life!"
She caught at his hand, her head drooped a little.
"Don't overpower me," she faltered. "I can't—no, I can't!"
He watched in silence the twitching of her lips, the filling of her eyes. A momentary remorse struck him. Why should he afflict her at this moment with his own secret? He closed his eyes, and deliberately shut out the vision which had lured his tongue into the byways of unwonted sentiment. He spoke firmly and without emotion.
"Louise," he begged, "let me be your confidant! No man knows more of the game of life as it is played out between men and women. There is no one in whom you can place a greater trust."