He paused, a little askance at the question. “To do better—to do my best,” he said, with a sudden flourish of firmness. “To take warning by this dreadful—”
“Oh, be silent,” she cried out, and hid her face. He looked at her hopelessly.
At last he said: “I don’t know what good it can do to go on talking. I have only one more thing to say. Of course you know that you are free.”
He spoke simply, with a sudden return to his old voice and accent, at which she weakened as under a caress. She lifted her head and gazed at him. “Am I?” she said musingly.
“Kate!” burst from him; but she raised a silencing hand.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that I am imprisoned—imprisoned with you in this dreadful thing. First I must help you to get out—then it will be time enough to think of myself.”
His face fell and he stammered: “I don’t understand you.”
“I can’t say what I shall do—or how I shall feel—till I know what you are going to do and feel.”
“You must see how I feel—that I’m half dead with it.”
“Yes—but that is only half.”