He made no answer, but she could see a look of suffering cross his face, and coming still closer, she sank down on the ottoman, laying her hand on his. "John...oh, John, spare me," she whispered.
For a moment his hand lay quiet under hers; then he drew it out, and enclosed her trembling fingers.
"Very well—I'll give him a chance—I'll do nothing," he said, suddenly putting his other arm about her.
The reaction caught her by the throat, forcing out a dry sob or two; and as she pressed her face against him he raised it up and gently kissed her.
But even as their lips met she felt that they were sealing a treaty with dishonour. That his kiss should come to mean that to her! It was unbearable—worse than any personal pain—the thought of dragging him down to falsehood through her weakness.
She drew back and rose to her feet, putting aside his detaining hand.
"No—no! What am I saying? It can't be—you must tell the truth." Her voice gathered strength as she spoke. "Oh, forget what I said—I didn't mean it!"
But again he seemed sunk in inaction, like a man over whom some baneful lethargy is stealing.
"John—John—forget!" she repeated urgently.
He looked up at her. "You realize what it will mean?"