"Where you could put up?"
"Yes—where I could sleep."
She gazed at me quite strangely, and so direct were her eyes that I remember wondering was she forgetting how repulsive I was. I believe that thought would have grown upon me. I believe, had she looked at me thus a moment longer, I should have taken the bull of fortune by the horns. I should have tried my luck, risking that refusal which I believed to be inevitable, whereby it would have been thrown back at me once more the eternal knowledge of myself. But at that moment two things occurred. I, who will have no mirror in my room, was suddenly confronted by my reflection in a little handglass of Clarissa's that leant against the back of an empty chair. She had been arranging herself, no doubt, before I came into the room; for it is ever the way with women that they must appear at their best, even to those whom least it should concern.
But it was not that which kept back the words then faltering on my lips. Clarissa's lip had trembled. Before another moment had passed she was in tears. It was not only weakness this time. Some spirit of courage had broken within her. She had given way.
Amazed though I was, I let her cry awhile before I questioned her; then, leaning nearer, I begged her tell me what it was.
"I—I couldn't be there alone," she faltered. "I-I couldn't bear it alone. Oh—I must have a little pride! I can't take anything more from you. You have given me so much as it is. I want to go home. I want to go back to Dominica. I wish to God I'd gone when you told me to last year. I should have been spared all this. You would have been spared it, too. Let me go back to Dominica."
"You'd sooner that," said I, "than the castle in Spain—the cottage in Kent?"
"Yes—I couldn't be there alone. Oh—I know what a disgrace I am. Do let me go."
"You're sure of what you say?" I repeated.
"Yes—yes—quite sure."