Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a little of his poise. She had come as a suppliant, and would not be difficult to handle. The old Beryl, polished, cynical mistress of herself and her emotions, might have beaten him down; induced God knows what, extravagant promises.
"I don't want to talk about what has happened. I am not reproaching you or appealing to any sense of duty but—"
She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves into tight spirals. He said nothing, holding his arguments in reserve against her exhaustion.
"You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie. You do know—Steppe wants to marry me?"
He nodded.
"Do you realize what that means—to me, Ronnie?"
"He's not a bad fellow," protested Ronnie. "Really, Beryl, I never dreamed you were going to take this line. Is it decent?"
"He's—he's awful, Ronnie, you know he's awful. He's hideous, he's just animal all through. Animal with reasoning powers, gross—horrible. You liked me, Ronnie," she was pleading now. "Why—why don't you marry me? I love you—I must have loved you. I could learn to respect you so easily. They say you're rotten, but you're of my own kind. Ronnie, don't you know what it means to me to say this—don't you know?"
She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince. Hysteria—suppose Steppe did come back? He went moist at the thought.
"Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed. "It would save me. It would save father, too. He would accept the accomplished fact, and be relieved. Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body. I'd serve you as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I'd be—I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know—don't you realize what I am saying—?"