"No!" he said, at last, in a hollow monosyllable.
"Yes, you are! Tell the truth. How are you, John?"
She was coming towards him, still smiling, one half bare arm outheld, the embodiment and the perfect type of female loveliness. He avoided her, and moved to another part of the room. It was all back again, intensified an hundred fold. He knew it was of the devil; he knew that the one great trial of his life was upon him. He did not love her in the least—he swore in his soul that moment that he bore no particle of affection for her. It was something else—something unearthly and horrible, which sought to draw him on. The other nights of dalliance which he had known returned, limned upon his conscience in lines of burning fire. And he had thought himself safe! He moved back a pace, where he could not see the angel-faced devils in her eyes. Look at her he must. She saw his fear, and laughed low in her full, white throat.
"Won't you shake hands with me, and tell me that you are glad to see me?"
There was no resentment in her voice or attitude that he had shunned her. She stood easily, the train to her dress sweeping over the soft carpet to one side as she had turned. The laces on her breast were creamy and feathery, and her girdle was a zone of gold.
Again he waited till his voice was steady, and again he answered, "No!"
"Won't you but touch my hand if I ask you to?—for the sake of Jericho!"
Her supplicating words brought madness, but the man withstood. He knew, through all the blinding wrack of emotions which tossed in his brain, that in distance alone was safety. Should he feel but her finger tips, he was damned. With that six or eight feet of floor space between them he was master of himself. For the third time he answered "No!"
She had been unprepared for this reserve, this fearful coldness. The last time they were together—the last time!—and he had left without a word of farewell to her, without telling her that he was going away. But she knew why he had gone. She was older than he, and had seen more of life. But the element of mercy in her soul was wofully deficient in magnitude. She made no further attempt at once after his third refusal, but stood with head slightly bent, and eyes downcast.
"You were not very just to me."