“Oh, don’t go on!” said Emily.
It was intolerable to hear him so frankly, almost carelessly, admitting his shameful humiliation; and a little while ago she[Pg 167] had thought him a fine and gallant figure, so insouciant, so independent!
“No!” she went on headlong. “Don’t tell your mother! I don’t care, no, not one little bit, what any one thinks! Denis would—”
She stopped, struggling with a sob that rose in her throat.
“It simply doesn’t matter,” she added more calmly. “You needn’t tell any one. You needn’t—run away; only please don’t talk about it any more.”
He stood before her, not shamefaced, but simply unhappy.
“I’m sorry, Emily!” he said again.
And so was she—terribly sorry, remembering what an endearing companion he had been, how considerate, how kindly. She was still grateful for those poor little kindnesses. She saw much that was good in Cecil, no malice, no harshness, only that pitiable lack of manly pride and honor, that degradation of which he was not even aware.
With a smile not very steady, she held out her hand.
“Never mind, Cecil!” she said. “It’s all over now, and forgotten. Let’s just say good-by and—”