"Don't hang hack," he urged. "Don't despair, and don't discourage me."
The last was almost plaintive. He knew that he needed help.
She rose and looked at him through the slits of her eyes.
"You have never influenced one act of my life. What makes you think you can do so now?"
"Sir George says it's your only chance."
She backed away, on guard. She began to laugh, a little hollow, false laugh. She would admit nothing.
"My only chance? Sir George says that?"
She laughed again, the laugh of derision, of defiance. They have an expression in the courts, "the burden of proof," and sometimes it's a heavy load to carry. Flagrant sin cries out: Prove it! The habitual criminal, caught, the stolen goods taken from his pocket, says: "I never saw it before. Some one put it there." Prove it, her laugh cried.
"Now, don't try that," he said gently. He did not love her, but it was piteous to see this gorgeous creature, with the world at her feet and destiny in her hand, with possibilities unlimited; it was piteous to see her throw it all away in her lust for something—God knows what—something she called "pleasure!" "life," in the mad race for sensation, for excitement, in the fatuous ambition for place in the shallow mob that called itself Society, sacrificing herself on the Altar of Self, pouring out her own blood before her own image. It was piteous! One can't stand idly by and see a maddened horse rush back into a burning stable. It was impossible not to feel sorry for her, not to want to help her.
"Sir George felt it was his duty to you, his duty to me," he added. She straightened up and her eyes blazed.