"It was you yourself who altered me. I came to you all loving and human and you froze me. There is nothing to be done."
"Yes, there is. You know that I love you."
"Perhaps you do, but the family matters more to you than I do, or anything else in the world."
"That may have been so once, but not now," his voice throbbed with feeling.
"Alas!" was all she answered and looked down. John longed to appeal to her—but he was too honest to seek to soften her through the link of the child. Indeed, the thought of it had grown hateful to him. He only knew that he had played for a stake which now seemed worthless. Amaryllis and her love mattered more than any child.
He clenched his hands tightly; the pain of things seemed hard to bear.
Why had he not broken the thongs of reserve which held him long days ago and made love to her in words? But that would have been dishonest. He must at least be true; and he realised now that he had starved her—no matter what his motive had been.
"Amaryllis, tell me everything, please," and he held out his hands and drew her to the sofa and sat down by her side.
She could not control her emotion any longer, and her voice shook as she answered him:
"I know that it was not you—but Denzil, John—and the baby is his, not yours."