“Lady Ruth,” Wingrave said quietly, “I do not understand what has procured for me the pleasure of this unexpected visit.”
She swayed a little towards him. Her head was thrown back, all the silent passion of the inexpressible, the hidden secondary forces of nature, was blazing out of her eyes, pleading with him in the broken music of her tone.
“You do not understand,” she repeated. “Ah, no! But can I make you understand? Will you listen to me for once as a human being? Will you remember that you are a man, and I a woman pleading for a little mercy—a little kindness?”
Wingrave moved a step further back.
“Permit me,” he said, “to offer you a chair.”
She sank into it—speechless for a moment. Wingrave stood over her, leaning slightly against the corner of the bookcase.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will explain what all this means. If it is my help which you require—”
Her hands flashed out towards him—a gesture almost of horror.
“Don’t,” she begged, “you know that it is not that! You know very well that it is not. Why do you torture me?”
“I can only ask you,” he said, “to explain.”